'A^ 


THE   PRINCESS   DAPHNE. 


T  H  E 


PRINCESS    DAPHNE 


'  Why  !  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  dust  aside, 
And,  naked  on  the  air  of  Heaven  ride, 

Wer't  not  a  shame — wer't  not  a  shame  for  him 
In  this  clay  Carcass  crippled  to  abide?" 

Omar-i-Khayydm . 


BELFORD,  CLARKE   &   CO. 

CHICAGO,    NEW    YORK,    AND    SAN    FRANCISCO 

PUBLISHERS 
1888. 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

BELFORD,   CLARKE   &   CO. 

1888 


Day  after  day  we  wandered — you  and  I — 

Amid  a  labyrinth  of  thought,  nor  found 

The  answer  to  the  problem  that  we  sought. 

Day  after  day  we  pondered,  asking  why 

Our  twin  souls  sought  each  other,  and  seemed  bound 

Together  by  some  strange  resistless  tie. 

And  as  each  answer  seemed  nor  wrong  nor  right, 

But  all  inexplicable,  1  forsook 

The  quest,  and  sate  me  down  to  write  this  book, 

That  peradventure  may  contain  some  light 

That;  thrown  upon  our  question,  may  explain 

The  bitter  pleasure  and  the  mad,  sweet  pain 

That  we  have  known  together.     I  have  done 

This  work  for  you  ;   look  kindly  on  the  flaws 

That   mar  it,  since  it  leads  you  to  the  cause 

Why,  when  we  met,  we  felt  our  souls  were  one. 


SORRENTO,  March,  1885. 


In  lands  which  the  stupidity  of  civilization  regards  as  barbarous, 
there  are  occult  powers  of  which  contemporary  science  is  absolutely  igno- 
rant. The  materialism  of  Enrope  has  not  the  faintest  conception  of  the 
spirituality  which  the  Hindus  have  reached  .  .  .  their  mortal  envelope 
is  but  a  chrysalis  which  the  immortal  butterfly,  the  sou/,  can  abandon 
or  resume  at  will. 

I  have  attempted  to  undo  with  magnetism  the  bands  that  join  mind 
and  matter.  In  experiments  that  were  certainly  prodigious,  but  which 
failed  to  satisfy  me,  I  surpassed  Mesmer,  Deslon,  Maxwell,  Puysegur, 
and  Deleiize :  catalepsy,  somnambulism,  clairvoyance,  soul-projection,  in 
fact,  air  the  effects  that  are  incomprehensible  to  the  masses,  though  simple 
enough  to  me,  I  have  produced  at  will. 


I  have  fasted,  I  have  prayed,  I  have  meditated  so  long,  I  have  domi- 
nated the  flesh  so  rigorously,  that  I  have  been  able  to  loose  the  terres- 
trial bonds.  Vishnu,  the  god  of  the  tenfold  incarnations,  has  revealed 
to  me-  the  mysterious  syllable  that  guides  the  soul  in  its  avatars. 

I  am  not  an  erudite  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word ;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  in  studying  certain  subjects  disdained  by  science,  I  have 
mastered  some  unemployed  occult  forces,  and  I  prodtice  effects  which 
appear  miraculous,  though  they  are  perfectly  natural.  .  .  .  By  wntch- 
ing  for  it  I  have  sometimes  surprised  the  soul  ....  Armed  with  the 
force  of  my  will,  tJiat  electricity  of  the  intellect,  I  vivify  or  I  annilii- 
hi te.  Nothing  is  opaque  to  my  eyes ;  my  gaze  pierces  everything.  .  .  . 
We  Europeans  are  too  superficial,  too  matter  of  fact,  too  much  in  love 
with  our  clay  prison,  to  open  ivindows  on  the  eternal  and  infinite. 

THEOPIIILE  GAUTIER.    "AVATAR." 

\_Myndaert   b'erelsfs   Translation^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

PROLOGUE it 

I.  A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE 13 

II.  UNE  MA!TRESSE  FEMME 36 

III.  L'AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME 57 

IV.  MESMERISM 77 

V.  DAPHNE  AND  ERIC 95 

VI.  AN  ANGLOMANIAC 124 

VII.  CLOUDS 143 

VIII.  TRANSMIGRATION 166 

IX.  THE  REINCARNATION  OF  DAPHNE 181 

X.  THE  AUT6CRAT  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG  205 

XI.  ATTRACTION  AND  REPULSION 221 

XII.  "  SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  1 " 237 

EPILOGUE 255 


THE 
PRINCESS  DAPHNE, 


PROLOGUE. 

"  THEN,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,"  said  Mr.  Paul  du 
Peyral,  "  the  case  lies  thus.  My  late  friend  and  benefactor, 
Casimir  Preault,  makes  my  enjoyment  of  the  fortune  he  has 
left  behind  him,  contingent  upon  my  offering  myself  as 
the  husband  of  his  second  cousin,  Miss  Daphne  Pre'ault 
of  New  Orleans  ?  " 

"  Exactly  !  " 

"  And  if  she  refuses  me,  I  enjoy  the  income  only  so  long 
as  I  remain  unmarried  ?  " 

"  Exactly !  " 

"  And  should  I  marry  anyone  else,  it  reverts  at  once  to 
that  young  lady,  unconditionally  ?  " 

"  Exactly  ! " 

"  I  understand — good  morning." 

"  Good  morning ;  "  and  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm  of 
Seligman,  Searcher,  &  Certiorari  bowed  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral 
out  of  his  office  on  the  ground-floor  of  No.  195  Nassau 
Street,  New  York  City. 

"Well,"  said  the  latter  gentleman  to  himself,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded up-town  in  a  brown  study  and  a  cab,  "  I  am  in  a 
pretty  peculiar  position.  Prospectively  a  wealthy  man,  but 
my  wealth  contingent  on  my  offering  myself  to  a  woman  I 
have  never  seen.  Wellj  they  say  she  is  beautiful.  Daphne 

1 1 


12  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

seems  inevitable  !  and  as  the  inevitable  I  accept  her.  I 
wonder  if  she  will  accept  me  ?  " 

On  reaching  his  rooms  he  straightway  indited  a  letter,  lay- 
ing his  hand  and  heart  at  the  feet  of  the  testator's  nominee. 
This  done,  he  dressed  himself ;  and,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
has  manfully  done  his  duty,  he  sought  Delmonico's  and 
dinner. 

A  week  later,  he  received  the  following  reply : — 

NEW  ORLEANS,  LA.;  December — ,  18 — . 

Sir: 

Your  impertinent  offer  of  marriage  has  reached  my 
daughter,  who  has  placed  it  in  my  hands  to  reply  thereto. 
We  beg,  once  and  for  all,  to  decline  the  offer  with  which  I 
presume  you  consider  that  you  honour  us.  We  have  already 
suffered  sufficiently  from  the  madness  of  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Casimir  Preault,  of  Baton  Rouge ;  we  did  not  expect,  how- 
ever, that  he  would  insult  us  by  suggesting  the  possibility  of 
an  alliance  between  his  second  cousin  and  his  body-servant. 
We  congratulate  you  on  the  disgraceful  success  of  your 
efforts  to  gain  an  ascendency  over  the  enfeebled  mind  of  an 
octogenarian,  though  that  ascendency  robs  us  temporarily  of 
an  inheritance  which  should  be  justly  ours.  Any  further 
communications  that  you  may  wish  to  make  to  us  must  be 
made  through  the  attorneys  to  the  estate,  Messrs.  Seligman, 
Searcher,  &  Certiorari ;  any  letter  of  yours  to  us  will  be  re- 
turned unopened.  I  have  but  one  regret,  and  that  is,  that 
my  age  and  infirmities  prevent  my  administering  the  chas- 
tisement that,  in  my  opinion,  you  deserve. 

Obediently  Yours, 

VICTOR  PREAULT. 

"  Good  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral,  as  he  turned  to 
his  breakfast ;  "  I've  got  the  money  unhampered  by  the 
woman." 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    BOHEMIAN    SOIREE. 

Do  you  know  Holland  Street,  Kensington  ?  Yes  ?  I 
wonder  whether  you  do,  or  whether  you  answer  me  "in  the 
air,"  the  prcenomcn  "  Holland,"  as  applied  to  streets,  roads, 
parks,  and  gardens,  in  that  expansive  area  known  as  "  Ken- 
sington :'  to  us,  which  comprises  the  Brompton,  the  Notting- 
Hill,  the  Hammersmith,  the  Fulham,  and  almost  the  St. 
John's  Wood  of  our  fathers,  being  so  familiar  as  to  call 
forth  the  affirmative  with  hardly  a  moment's  reflection  as 
to  whether  one  is  telling  the  truth  or  not.  For  Holland 
Street  is  not  a  very  well  known  locality :  it  is  hardly  a 
thoroughfare  :  and  unlike  Holland  Road,  and  Holland  Park, 
and  Holland  Park  gardens,  it  is  not  lined  with  the  gorgeous 
abodes  of  fashionable  Bohemia — but  it  is  Bohemia  all  the 
same,  Bohemia  as  we  knew  it,  the  Bohemia  of  Thackeray, 
of  Jerrold,  of  Albert  Smith,  and  almost  of  Dickens ;  and  it 
is  inhabited,  or  at  any  rate  was,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write, 
exclusively  by  "  the  boys."  The  men  who  lived  there  were 
"  the  boys,"  and  wore  the  pepper-and-salt  continuations,  the 
velveteen  or  corduroy  jackets,  the  open  collars  and  quaint 
ties,  the  comfortable  shirts  and  the  uncompromising  hats  that 
distinguish  "  the  boys  "  from  their  uninteresting  but  respect- 
able fellow-men,  all  the  world  over.  And  the  women,  too — 
they  too  were  of  "  the  boys  "  ;  and  since  long  before  Oscar 
Wilde  carried  the  costume  of  the  atelier  into  every-day  life 
and  conventional  drawing-rooms,  they  had  worn  the  artistic 
folds  and  colours  which  have  become  familiar  to  us  coupled 
with  the  adjective  "aesthetic,"  and,  in  merry  communion  with 
the  male  artists,  enjoyed  a  blissful  immunity  from  the  tor- 
tures of  civilization,  represented  for  them  by  high  heels,  tight 

13 


!4  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

waists,  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  the  Nineteenth  Century  dress- 
improver. 

Those  were  happy  days  in  Holland  Street,  and  its  Bohe- 
mian glories  have  not  yet  quite  departed  ;  its  red-brick  walls 
and  ramshackle  studios  have  not  been  invaded  or  routed  by 
"  villa  residences  "  ;  its  pipes  have  not  been  banished  by  the 
the  cigarette ;  it  has  hardly  begun  to  be  civilized,  even  to  the 
extent  to  which  Bedford  Gardens  and  like  localities  have 
succumbed  to  the  influence  of  fashionable  Bohemianism, 
and  there  are  many  nooks  yet  therein,  where  the  dress  clothes 
cease  from  troubling  and  the  opera  hat's  at  rest.  You  know, 
of  course,  the  church-yard  of  St.  Mary  Abbott's,  and  Horn- 
ton  Street :  those  are  the  media  of  communication  by  which 
"the  boys  "  sought  the  outer  world  when  they  wanted  it — 
which  was  seldom.  They  took  the  little  flagged  footpath 
through  the  church-yard,  or,  when  the  carrying  of  a  picture 
to  or  from  an  exhibition  warranted  or  required  the  extrava- 
gance of  a  cab,  they  reached  their  classic  shades  via  Horn- 
ton  Street.  Hornton  Street  is  practically  a  one-sided  affair 
looking  due  west ;  that  is  to  say,  throughout  a  greater  part 
of  its  length  it  looks  out  over  the  gardens  of  Something 
Priory  (I  think  it  is  called),  and  its  inhabitants  dread  the  day 
when  this  "  open  lot,"  as  the  Americans  would  say,  shall  be 
built  over  by  greedy  heirs,  or  by  thrifty  executors  and  trustees 
— for  now,  in  the  early  spring,  from  their  upper  windows  they 
can  watch  the  birth  of  the  year  and  the  return  of  the  song- 
birds, and  later  on  they  can  open  them  and  get  the  full  bene- 
fit of  the  summer  fragrance.  A  discreet  little  street  is  that 
called  Hornton,  where  there  is  no  danger  of  being  over- 
looked by  inquisitive  "  opposite  neighbors,"  but  not  inhabited 
by  a  homeful  little  colony  like  Holland  Street — or  as  Hol- 
land Street  was  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  18 — . 

My  story  opens  in  the  September  of  that  year.  Autumn 
seemed  to  have  roused  herself  from  her  long  sleep,  and  had 
timorously — tentatively,  as  it  were — laid  her  chilly  touch 
upon  the  great  city,  to  warn  it  that  ere  long  she  would  be 
fully  awake,  and  strong  enough  to  take  it  wholly  into  her 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  l$ 

grasp.  Already  the  chestnut  trees  in  some  of  the  parks  and 
squares  seemed  to  have  realized  that  they  could  not  store  up 
for  another  year  the  gold  they  had  gathered  from  the  sun- 
shine during  the  summer,  and  had  begun  to  squander  it  ex- 
travagantly, flinging  it  lavishly  to  earth  in  the  brilliant 
bronzes  and  gilts  of  the  leaves  that  strewed  the  grass  be- 
neath them  ;  the  sparrows  were  beginning  to  seek  the  patches 
of  sunlight  on  the  tree-tops,  or  fluffed  themselves  into  cosy, 
chattering  feather-balls  in  the  warm  dust  of  the  more  de- 
serted roadways.  The  summer  was  not  gone,  but  it  was 
strong  with  life  only  for  a  day  or  so  at  a  time,  husbanding  its 
strength,  as  it  were,  during  the  intervening  hours,  to  display 
it  with  the  more  arrogance  at  intervals,  as  a  temptation  to 
the  world. 

But  the  season  of  the  year  was  a  matter  of  indifference  in 
Holland  Street.  Spring  meant,  in  its  eyes,  one  of  the  male 
"  boys,"  flying  into  the  studio  of  one  of  the  female  "  boys," 
and  dragging  her  out  for  a  walk,  out  toward  Hammer- 
smith and  Chiswick  and  Barnes  and  Ealing;  summer 
meant  half-a-dozen  of  them  providing  their  own  refreshments, 
and  going  up  the  river — to  find  that  each  had  been  struck  with 
the  same  original  idea,  viz.,  to  bring  a  chicken-pie ;  autumn 
meant  a  cottage  by  a  wood  or  by  the  sea,  whence  they 
should  return  laden  with  sketches  and  "  studies "  to  be 
worked  up  in  the  winter;  the  winter,  which  represented  only 
an  increased  expenditure  of  gas  and  coal,  with  tea  and  muf- 
fins at  intervals  during  the  day.  How  happy  we  were !  and 
now  that  we  are  respectable  fathers  and  mothers  of  families, 
a  younger  generation  is  doing  the  same  thing  behind  the 
walls  and  windows  of  Holland  Street. 

Perhaps  I  am  generalizing  too  much,  for  of  course  I  have 
a  particular  house — a  particular  menage — in  my  mind's  eye. 
It  is  No.  141  on  the  north  side  of  the  street,  one  of 
those  houses  with  no  front  to  it,  which  gives  one  the  idea 
that  the  builder  was  going  to  face  it  the  other  way,  but 
changed  his  mind  at  the  last  moment,  cut  a  front  door 
looking  into  the  back-yard,  and  filled  up  the  road  in  front 


!6  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE, 

with  a  garden — which  garden,  in  turn,  the  inhabitants  had 
filled  up  with  a  studio.  There  are  many  such  in  Holland 
Street.  Where  the  houses  are,  so  to  speak,  right  side  fore- 
most, there  are  little  gardens  in  front  of  them,  wherein 
old-fashioned  flowers  grow  luxuriantly  in  defiance  of  the 
London  smoke,  and  through  which  flagged  pathways  lead 
from  the  front  doors  to  the  wooden  gates  ;  and  in  one  of  these 
we  shall  seek  some  of  the  actors  in  this  drama. 

At  present  our  attention  is  turned  to  No.  141,  at  whose  un- 
compromisingly ugly  door  a  young  man  is  letting  himself  in 
with  a  latch-key.  An  artist  obviously,  by  his  velveteen  coat, 
soft  hat,  and  long  hair  ;  and  a  man  whom  one  would  remark 
wherever  one  might  see  him.  His  face  is,  perhaps,  too  finely 
moulded  for  a  man's — there  are  those  who  declare  him  to  be 
effeminate  in  appearance  ;  his  eyes  are  large  and  of  a  danc- 
ing brown,  his  nostrils  clearly  cut,  his  lips  thin,  the  jaw  is 
square,  the  forehead  high,  and  the  brows  are  straight,  the 
whole  being  framed  in  masses  of  rather  light  brown  hair. 
The  hand  and  arm  not  occupied  in  opening  the  door  are  en- 
cumbered with  parcels ; — Gabriel  Hawleigh  has  been  shop- 
ping in  High  Street,  Kensington.  Whilst  he  fumbles  with 
the  key,  the  door  is  opened  from  the  inside  by  a  girl,  dressed 
in  along,  loose  frock  of  chestnut  brown,  girt  about  the  waist 
with  a  broad  moirJ  sash,  who  stands  on  the  steps  and  laughs 
at  him.  The  front  of  her  dress  is  concealed — protected 
rather — by  a  long  apron,  and  calico  sleeve-preservers  are 
tied  over  her  arms,  from  the  elbow  down.  She  is  neither 
pretty  nor  plain,  but  her  great,  grave,  gloomy  gray  eyes  quar- 
rel with  the  sweetness  of  her  expression,  and  with  the  laugh 
which,  parting  her  finely  traced  lips,  displays  two  rows  of 
dazzling  teeth.  Her  hair,  rather  short,  forms  round  her  head 
an  aureole  of  gold,  which  shimmers  as  she  laughs  at  the 
"  boy  "  on  the  door-step.  In  sooth  a  goodly  sight  are  they,  as 
she  stands  in  the  shade  of  the  doorway,  and  he,  with  one  foot 
on  the  step,  looks  up  at  her. 

"Thanks,  Maye,"  says  he,  as  he  steps  into  the  house  and 
she  closes  the  door. 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  ij 

"  Have  you  got  the  muffins  ?  "  she  inquires,  anxiously. 

"Yes." 

"  And  the  plums  ?  " 

"  Here  they  are ;  they  had  a  narrow  escape  from  squash- 
ing against  Dick  Lindsay,  as  I  came  through  the  church- 
yard." 

"  And  the  soda-water  ?  " 

"  It's  coming  round — I  won't  carry  soda-water  bottles 
through  High  Street." 

"  And  the  coffee  ?  " 

"  There !  " 

"  And  the  cheese  ?  " 

"  Rather !  " 

"  Very  well ;  go  and  finish  clearing  out  the  studio,  and  I'll 
come  up  directly ;  "  and  the  girl  disappears,  whilst  Gabriel 
hangs  up  his  hat,  and,  passing  through  the  little  drawing- 
room  on  the  right,  steps  through  the  window  into  the  studio. 
Here  he  looks  round  him  as  one  is  wont  to  look  round  when 
one  is  "  at  home,"  and  then  produces  from  his  apparently 
inexhaustible  pockets  a  box  of  cigarettes,  which  he  dumps 
down  rather  contemptuously  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  and  a  fat 
package  of  tobacco,  which  he  empties  carefully  into  a  stone 
jar  by  their  side. 

The  studio  already  shows  signs  of  having  been  cleared 
somewhat,  but  now  he  continues  the  operation,  carefully 
covering  a  half-finished  picture  on  an  easel  with  a  cloth  as  he 
turns  it  to  the  wall,  and  lifting  into  a  corner  a  smaller  easel, 
the  flower-painting  on  which,  however,  he  does  not  cover  up. 
Only,  the  bowl  of  Gloire  de  Dijon  roses  which  stood  on  a  table 
by  its  side  he  carefully  carries  out  of  the  studio  and  up-stairs 
into  his  own  room,  taking  pains  that  their  arrangement  be 
not  disturbed,  so  that  on  the  morrow  Maye  Trevethick  may 
have  no  difficulty  in  finishing  her  study  from  them.  When 
he  returns,  an  elderly  lady  is  sitting  in  a  low  arm-chair  by 
the  window  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Ah  !  madre,"  cries  he,  "  how  are  we  getting  on  ?  " 

"  I  think  everything  is  ready  now,  dear.     Maye  is  putting 


i  8  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

the  finishing  touches  to  the  baked  meats  down-stairs,  and  I'm 
ready  to  receive  the  company,  and  have  got  all  my  stereo- 
typed phrases  ready  to  greet  them  with.  We  shall  have 
quite  an  historic  party  !  " 

There  was  to  be  a  party  in  the  studio, — the  reader  has 
gathered  that  already, — and  the  little  household  at  No.  141 
Holland  Street  were  quite  excited  at  the  prospect  of  the  festi- 
val, which  was  to  be  one  of  those  merry  Bohemian  orgies  such 
as  "  the  boys  "  delighted  in.  Let  me  present  the  host  to 
you  before  the  company  arrives. — Stay  !  there  is  a  ring  at  the 
bell — some  one  arriving  ?  No,  only  a  boy  with  the  soda-water. 

The  lady  in  the  window  is  Mrs.  Hawleigh — a  sensible, 
clever  old  lady,  such  as  young  men  delight  in  talking  to, 
very  courteous,  very  correct,  a  great  reader,  but  a  wise  old 
lady  who,  having  passed  her  later  life  in  poverty,  by  compar- 
ison with  the  affluence  of  her  earlier  years,  knows  her 
world  thoroughly,  and  in  the  parlance  of  "  the  boys,"  has 
no  nonsense  about  her.  Hermippus  the  Sage  it  was  who 
remarked  that  the  society  of  young  people  keeps  old  people 
young ;  and  this  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Hawleigh — the  ar- 
tistic colony  with  whom  we  are  concerned  adored  her.  She 
was  a  kind  of  mother  to  them  all,  and  returned  their  affec- 
tion with  impartiality  :  she  had  only  two  especial  favourites, 
and  they  were  her  son  Gabriel  Hawleigh  and  her  niece 
Maye  Trevethick.  She  had  married,  when  quite  young,  a 
lieutenant  in  the  ill-fated  Light  Brigade,  and  soon  after  that 
fateful  25th  of  October,  when  the  blue  and  black  missive 
from  the  War  Office  had  told  her  that  the  young  husband  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  whole  soul  without  reserve  had  rid- 
den "  into  the  jaws  of  death,  into  the  gates  of  Hell,"  and  had 
left  his  fair  young  body  before  the  batteries  of  Balaclava, 
she  had  given  birth  prematurely  to  her  boy  Gabriel.  His 
consequent  delicacy  was  almost  a  source  of  solace  to  her,  as 
a  safeguard  against  his  joining  that  profession  which  had 
already  torn  two-thirds  of  all  she  cared  for  in  the  world 
from  her.  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  though  possessed  of  but  slender 
means,  lived  only  for  Gabriel,  and  had  refused  to  marry 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  {g 

again  ;  had  only  watched  with  delighted  solicitude  the  growth 
of  her  son's  artistic  taste,  and  had  denied  herself  many  a  little 
luxury  that  he  might  cultivate  it  to  the  utmost ;  for  Gabriel, 
with  all  his  softness  and  delicacy,  had  undoubted  talent  in 
the  profession  he  had  taken  up,  though  that  talent  had  not 
as  yet  proved  very  remunerative. 

Gabriel  Hawleigh  was  an  artist  and  a  fiddler,  and  spent 
his  life  in  the  companionship  of  his  easel  and  his  violin. 
His  mahl-stick  and  his  fiddle-bow  were  the  twin  sceptres  of 
his  autocratic  power — in  Holland  Street.  Often  his  mother 
feared  that  the  one  would  interfere  with  the  other,  but  it  was 
impossible  to  make  him  forsake  the  one  and  cleave  to  the 
other,  especially  since  Maye  Trevethick  had  become  a  mem- 
ber of  the  household,  with  her  enthusiasm  for  her  paint-brush 
under  the  tuition — and  the  able  tuition — of  Gabriel,  and  her 
skilled,  sympathetic  touch  upon  the  piano  which  stood  in  a 
corner  of  the  studio,  and  on  which  she  would  often  play  rich 
phantasies  by  the  hour,  or  accompany  Gabriel  when,  for  her 
delight  and  that  of  his  mother,  he  would  take  up 

" this  small,  sweet  thing, 


Devised  in  love  and  fashioned  cunningly 
Of  wood  and  strings," — 

interpreting  the  masterpieces  of  the  composers  for  his  in- 
strument, or  following  Maye  through  the  chords  and  melo- 
dies of  some  daring  improvisation,  in  which  he  would  plead 
to  her  in  harmonious  whispers  of  things  unutterable.  For 
they  were  very  poor  in  this  world's  riches.  Ah — yi ! 

Maye  Trevethick,  the  orphan  and  only  child  of  Mrs.  Haw- 
leigh's  only  sister,  had  joined  the  household  some  three  years 
before,  and  was  now  a  sweet  woman  of  nineteen.  Gabriel 
was  twenty-two.  By  that  you  can  approximately  fix  the  date 
of  my  story.  When  her  father,  Claude  Trevethick,  had  died 
in  India,  her  mother  had  soon  followed  him  to  "  that  undis- 
covered country  from  whose  bourne  no  traveller  returns,"  and 
her  worldly  possessions  hardly  sufficing  for  the  co-mainte- 
nance of  body  and  soul,  Mrs.  Hawleigh  had  taken  the  girl  to 


2O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

her  heart  and  home,  and  the  menage  in  Holland  Street  had 
become  triple  instead  of,  as  heretofore,  dual.  Mrs.  Hawleigh 
had  never  regretted  her  good-hearted  impulse,  for  the  pure, 
sweet  girl  had  brought  a  rare  sunshine  into  the  little  house, 
and  was  as  much  one  of  the  family  as  if  she  had  been 
in  very  truth  Gabriel's  sister.  Such  were  the  inmates  of 
No.  141,  and  such,  one  of  them  at  least  prayed  that  they 
might  ever  continue,  for  the  mother's  heart  read  truly  in  the 
clear  pages  of  her  boy's  soul,  and  daily  she  wove  happy  vi- 
sions of  a  happy  future. 

The  hour  approached  for  which,  as  Maye  said,  "  the  cards 
had  been  sent  out."  Mrs.  Hawleigh  was  suppressing  a 
tendency  to  doze,  and  Maye  and  Gabriel  were  having  an 
active  row  about  the  framing  of  certain  works  of  art  that  at 
present  lay  around  the  studio  in  a  frightfully  dissolute  state, 
when  the  bell  rang,  and  Eric  Trevanion  was  announced  by  the 
"  Empress,"  a  good-naturedly  obese  person  of  uncertain  age, 
who,  progressing  through  the  stages  of  Mrs.  Hawleigh's 
maid,  Gabriel's  nurse,  and  general  factotum  in  Holland 
Street,  had  enjoyed  the  names  of  almost  every  imperial 
Roman  dame,  and  from  Eudoxia,  Theodora,  Faustina,  As- 
pasia,  Poppaea,  and  a  host  of  others,  the  morals  of  whose 
original  bearers  would  have  brought  her  gray  hairs  in  sor- 
row to  the  hair-dresser's,  had  arrived  at  the  simple  appel- 
lative of  "  Empress,"  from  her  imaginary  authority  in  the 
Bohemia  of  Holland  Street. 

Eric  Trevanion,  whom  the  Empress  had  just  admitted,  was 
a  Bohemian  of  a  class  much  commoner  to~day  than  it  was 
at  the  time  of  which  I  write.  He  was,  as  it  were,  an  ama- 
teur Bohemian ;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  private  means  of  his 
own,  an  ample  allowance  made  him  by  his  father,  a  wealthy 
Cornish  squire,  enough  to  prevent  the  necessity  of  his  sell- 
ing his  pictures  to  live ;  and  this  was  a  most  fortunate  thing 
for  him,  for  though  a  royally  good  fellow,  Eric  was  not  much 
of  an  artist,  though  he  meant  very  well,  and  covered  acres  of 
canvas,  in  his  very  superlative  studio  next  door,  with  what  he 
called  "  Studies  from  the  Impressionists." 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  21 

"  Mine  is  an  untamed  genius,"  he  used  to  say ;  "  I  can't 
trammel  it  with  purity  of  line  and  rules  of  colour  ;  it  is  enough 
for  me  to  know  that  my  work  elevates  the  thoughts  and 
stimulates  the  imagination.  The  study  of  my  pictures  is  a 
search  after  the  hidden  beauties  of  the  Undefined.  Look  at 
that,  for  instance  ;  if  you  look  carefully  but  comprehensively 
at  it  for  a  little  while  and  at  a  little  distance,  the  subject 
will  form  itself  for  you,  and  you  will  be  astonished  that  you 
did  not  see  it  at  once.  Since  you  are  pressed  for  time  I  will 
tell  you.  This  is  '  A  Discord  in  Aniline  Purples — Jimmy 
Whistler  struck  by  lightning  in  the  middle  of  a  sneeze.' 
The  large  canvas  on  the  wall  is  a  Theosophical  picture. 
I  think  the  idea  came  to  me  in  a  trance,  I'm  not  sure ;  it 
looks,  I  admit,  as  if  it  had  been  painted  by  my  astral  double 
the  morning  after  a  drunk  ;  but  the  idea  is  very  sublime  and 
Esoteric  Buddhism-ish — '  A  Nocturne  in  Green  Apple  Color 
— Madame  Blavatzky  as  a  Priestess  of  Isis,  pondering  on  the 
"  Now-ness  of  the  When,"  whilst  Mohini  and  A.  P.  Sinnettplay 
three-card  monte  in  the  distance.'  Some  day  I  shall  grow  a 
white  curl  and  be  appreciated — at  present  I'm  happy  enough 
as  I  am." 

Such  was  the  new-comer,  the  first  arrival,  a  young  man 
dressed  with  scrupulous  carelessness  in  the  costume  of  Bo- 
hemia. Son,  as  I  have  said,  of  a  Cornish  squire  of  consider- 
able means,  he  had  adopted  art  as  a  profession  for  the  sake 
of  its  associations  and  its  freedom.  Tall  and  dark,  and  quiet 
in  manner,  no  one  ever  knew  whether  he  were  serious  or  not, 
or  whether,  like  the  ^Esthete  of  historic  fiction  who  dined 
with  closed  doors  off  beefsteak  and  onions,  he  laughed  at 
himself  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  studio  ;  but  everyone 
liked  him,  for  it  was  whispered  that  his  right  hand  did  many 
a  good  action  of  which  his  left  hand  remained  blissfully 
ignorant,  among  the  impecunious  "  boys  "  whose  pictures  he 
would  buy,  ostensibly  on  commission  for  his  father,  and  this 
often  with  such  a  lordly  disregard  of  their  merits  as  paintings, 
that,  when  Gabriel  Hawleigh  ate  things  that  disagreed  with 
him,  his  grisliest  nightmare  was  always  one  of  incarceration 


22  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

in  the  elder  Trevanion's  picture-gallery.  His  especial  cronies 
were  the  Hawleighs,  possibly  on  account  of  their  proximity, 
a  proximity  which  lent  itself  to  his  continual  appeals 
"next  door"  to  have  buttons  sewed  on,  or  especial  delicacies 
cooked,  or  the  wounds  produced  by  his  amateur  carpentering 
bandaged.  To-night  he  made  an  early  appearance,  with 
two  chairs  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  basket. 

"  Do  you  want  some  more  chairs  ? "  was  his  greeting. 
"  And  look  here  ;  the  governor  sent  me  up  a  couple  of  brace 
of  partridges  yesterday,  so  I  had  them  cooked  and  brought 
them  round.  I  get  very  hungry  later  on  and  require  strong 
meats,  so  I  said  to  myself,  '  Come  early  and  bring  your  own 
birds.'  How  are  you  all,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Now  that's  what  I  call  having  a  proper  regard  for  the 
ethics  of  the  situation,"  cried  Gabriel.  "  Empress,  here  is 
food !  Give  me  the  chairs,  and  now  let's  greet  him.  How 
are  you,  Mr.  Trevanion  ? — so  good  of  you  to  come  !  " 

"  Not  at  all — pleasure,  'm  sure,"  replied  the  Cornishman, 
gravely.  "  And  whilst  I  think  of  it — before  the  aristocracy 
of  Camden  Hill  turn  up — have  you  got  a  shoe  lace  ? 
Hark !  some  one  approaches — I  shall  go  away  and  come 
back  fashionably  late.  How  are  you,  Miss  Easton  ? — have 
you  brought  the  latch-key  ?  I've  left  mine  on  my  dressing- 
table." 

This  last  remark  was  made  to  the  elder  of  two  girls  who 
made  their  appearance  at  this  moment,  Sylvia  and  Eva 
Easton,  occupants  of  the  floor  above  him  next  door,  who 
were  engaged  taking  off  their  hats,  smoothing  their  hair,  and 
giving  themselves  and  one  another  little  corrective  pats  and 
punches  all  over,  in  a  corner  with  Maye,  to  an  accompani- 
ment of  those  hysterical  whispers  and  bursts  of  suppressed 
merriment  without  which  no  properly  constructed  young 
women  can  greet  one  another  after  an  enforced  separation  of — 
say — two  hours.  The  elder,  Sylvia  Easton,  was  a  student  of 
"  Still  Life,"  and  had  been  remarkably  successful  at  getting 
five-pound  pictures  exhibited  and  sold  in  Suffolk  Street,  Pall 
Mall,  and  Burlington  House.  Her  sister  Eva  was  recently 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  23 

home  from  a  two-years'  sojourn  in  the  Conservatoire  at 
Leipsic,  where  she  had  devoted  her  time  to  the  study  of  the 
violin.  That  accounted  for  the  papier  mache  fiddle-case  and 
roll  of  music  which  she  dexterously  concealed  beneath  her 
cloak,  with  one  end  plainly  visible  to  guard  against  its 
being  ignored. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  studio,"  said  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  as  an- 
other arrival  announced  himself  by  "  tiding  at  the  pin  ;  "  and 
the  little  nucleus  of  "  the  party  "  stepped  through  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Great  Scott !  Pouff ! !  "  exclaimed  Trevanion,  flying  to  the 
ropes  of  the  skylights,  which  he  opened  to  their  fullest  ex- 
tent. "Gabriel,  what  are  you  doing  ?  " 

The  gaslights  of  "  the  flarer  "  were  reinforced  by  half-a- 
dozen  candles  disposed  around  the  studio,  and  seated  on  the 
floor  before  a  brass  Venetian  lamp,  Gabriel  had  succeeded 
in  producing  a  perfume  which,  not  having  the  pen  of  a 
Dante,  I  am  powerless  to  describe. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  smiling  apologetically,  in  defiance  of  the 
contortions  of  his  face  from  his  nose  outward,  "  I  thought 
this  Venetian  thing  would  look  pretty,  alight,  but  I  can't  get 
it  to  work.  By  Jove  !  if  the  merry  Venetians  always  pro- 
duce this  effect  when  they  try  to  illuminate  the  world,  I 
don't  wonder  that  they  seem  rather  to  like  the  Grand  Canal 
at  low  water !  " 

"  Take  it  out !  Ouf  !  "  vociferated  Eric. 

And  amid  the  derisive  laughter  of  the  band,  Gabriel  re- 
moved his  highly  artistic  but  disagreeably  pungent  illumin- 
ation ;  whilst  Maye  lit  some  incense  in  a  cinque-cento  thurible 
to  neutralize  the  aromatic  effects  of  his  experiment. 

Meanwhile  the  other  guests  begin  to  arrive.  First  Bernard 
Rawlinson,  a  grave,  handsome  creature  with  picturesquely 
dishevelled  hair  and  an  indumentary  desinvolture  peculiarly 
his  own.  Rawlinson  would  have  been  an  excellent  artist  if 
he  had  not  been  a  tolerable  actor,  and  an  excellent  actor 
had  it  not  been  for  his  talent  as  a  painter.  As  it  was,  he 
divided  his  time  about  equally  between  the  studio  and  the 


24  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

stage,  with  the  result  that  the  one  always  interfered  with  the 
other,  and  precluded  his  reaching  the  summit  of  excellence 
in  either. 

He  was  followed  by  Dick  Lindsay — a  funny  man.  That 
was  obvious  the  moment  you  saw  him.  His  smooth-shaved 
and  rather  ugly  face  never  changed  its  expression  in  the 
slightest  degree  ;  but  from  behind  his  light,  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  his  keen  blue  eyes  seemed  to  watch  everything 
around  him,  and  discover  the  hopelessly  ludicrous  in  what- 
ever presented  itself  within  range  of  his  observation.  He 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  snuffed  the  gale  suspiciously. 

"  Is  anybody  dead  so  far  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Not  at  present,  "  replied  Sylvia  Easton. 

"Then  I  think  I  may  venture,"  said  he,  stepping  into  the 
studio.  "What  has  happened  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Gabriel  has  been  making  sacifice  of  a  sweet  savour,  and 
has  just  disappeared,  like  the  ghost  in  the  '  Antiquary, ' 
'  with  an  aromatic  perfume  and  a  melodious  twang. '  " 

"  Oh !  I  thought  someone  had  had  an  accident  with  the 
chemicals;"  and  he  subsided  by  Mrs.  Hawleigh's  side  as 
Gerome  Markham,  an  artist  attached  to  the  permanent  staff 
of  a  comic  paper,  made  his  appearance.  A  small,  fat  man 
with  a  large  income  and  a  supremely  careworn  and  worried 
expression,  clothed  in  the  most  superlative  evening  dress, 
with  a  gardenia  in  his  button-hole. 

"  Apothecary  !  an  ounce  of  civet,"  cried  Bernard  Rawlinson, 
as  Markham  stepped  round  on  tip-toe,  making  his  choicest 
salaams  to  the  company,  and  diffusing  a  faint,  sweet  perfume 
of  chypre  as  he  went. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  if  in  answer,  "  I  perceived  a  weird 
aroma  before  I  left  Phillimore  Gardens,  and  as  the  wind  set 
from  this  direction,.  I  thought  you  would  appreciate  my  deli- 
cacy in  providing  a  counteractive." 

Others  followed  him,  and  at  last  about  a  dozen  genial 
souls  had  shaken  their  hosts  by  the  hand,  had  turned  from 
Gabriel  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  had  congratulated 
Markham  on  the  picturesque  splendour  of  his  appearance, 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  2$ 

and  joined  in  the  tea,  coffee,  and  gossip  of  the  studio. 
Suddenly  Trevanion,  who  occupied  the  music-stool,  swung 
round  and  said: 

"  Where's  the  Princess  ?  " 

"  Echo  answers  where,"  said  Gabriel. 

"Then  Echo  is  a  liar  or  intoxicated,"  rejoined  Lindsay, 
"  for  Echo  ought  to  answer  '  cess. ' ' 

"  But  where  is  she  ?  "  persisted  Trevanion. 

"  I  saw  her  to-day,"  said  Eva  Easton,  "  and  she  said  she 
was  coming. " 

"  I  think,"  said  Rawlinson,  "  that  the  President's  dining 
with  her  ;  "  and  at  this  intelligence  every  tongue  was  hushed, 
for  "  the  President  "  dining  in  Holland  Street  was  an  event 
that  brought  throbs  to  every  Bohemian  heart.  And  yet  it 

was  not  uncommon,  for  Sir  George  B ,  President  of  the 

Royal  Something-or-other  of  Painters,  with  his  fine,  hand- 
some face  and  silver-gray  hair,  was  "  a  boy"  among  "the 
boys,"  and,  often  looked  in  on  the  colony,  and  smoked  cigar- 
ettes whilst  he  made  suggestions  that  accounted  for  many 
an  admission  to  the  holy  precincts  of  the  Academy  on  Var- 
nishing day. 

"  Well,  he's  in  good  company,"  said  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  "  and 
Sir  George  is  likely  to  stay  there." 

"  No  !  "  said  a  voice  on  the  threshold ;  and  most  of  the 
men  rose  to  receive  the  great  man  himself,  who  stood  smiling 
for  an  instant  at  the  colony,  and  then  bent  low  over  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Hawleigh. 

"  May  I  come  to  the  party  ?  "  said  he,  as  he  settled  him- 
self by  Mrs.  Hawleigh's  side. 

"  Rather  !  "  said  Gabriel. 

"  Coffee  ?  "  said  Maye. 

"Thanks — both  of  you,"  said  Sir  George. 

"  I  come  as  an  ambassador  or  advance-guard,"  continued 
he,  "to  say  that  the  Princess  Daphne  will  be  here  directly; 
she  stayed  to  interview  someone  for  a  moment,  and  sent  me 
on — there's  a  ring !  Perhaps  it's  she.  "  Maye  rose  and  went 
quickly  to  the  door;  the  next  moment  Miss  Daphne  Preault 


26  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

— called  unanimously  by  the  colony  "  The  Princess  " — stood 
in  the  drawing-room  window  and  looked  round  the  studio. 
The  men  rose  again  with  one  accord,  and  a  little  murmur  of 
satisfied  "  Ah's  "  went  round. 

That  Miss  Preault  should  have  been  dubbed  "  The  Princess 
Daphne  "  never  caused  a  moment's  surprise  to  any  who  saw 
her.  Who  she  was,  and  where  she  came  from,  no  one  knew 
for  absolutely  certain  ;  and  the  combined  and  persistent  curi- 
osity of  the  entire  female  colony  had  not  as  yet  elucidated 
the  problem.  Meanwhile  they  bowed  before  her  ;  and  though 
she  often  seemed  unconscious  of  her  empire,  the  sceptre  she 
swayed  was  that  of  a  rule  which,  all  agreed,  was  highly  be- 
neficent to  her  subjects,  and  very  genuine  indeed. 

A  dim  rumour  existed  in  the  colony  to  the  effect  that  the 
Princess  Daphne  was  a  Creole.  No  one,  however,  dreamt 
of  pressing  the  idea  heavily  upon  her,  and  when  suggested 
lightly,  she  would  equally  lightly  set  it  aside.  Since  then, 
however,  I,  the  writer  of  this  narrative,  have  been  far  afield, 
and  among  the  beauties  who  stroll  of  a  summer's  evening 
along  Carondelet  Street,  or  on  the  Levee,  or  in  the  old  Rue 
Royale,  in  New  Orleans,  or  who  lounge  on  the  piazzas  of  Baton 
Rouge  and  Mobile  and  such  semi-tropical  cities  of  the  New 
World  I  have  seen  many  a  finely  moulded  quasi-Amazonic 
figure  that  reminded  me,  as  nothing  else  has  ever  done,  of 
Daphne  Preault.  The  reader  may  as  well  be  let  into  the 
secret  that  a  Creole  she  was. 

Daphne  Preault  was  tall,  or  at  any  rate  held  herself,  as 
many  women  have  the  trick  of  doing,  so  as  to  convey  that 
impression  ;  and  this  dignity  of  stature  was  still  further  en- 
hanced by  the  grand  proportions  of  her  body,  by  the  half- 
Spanish  lines  of  the  neck  and  shoulders,  the  finely  rounded 
bust  and  non-atrophied  waist,  the  curves  at  the  hips,  and  the 
purity  of  the  lines  down  to  her  feet,  which,  like  her  hands, 
were  not  too  small.  Her  hands  especially  were  a  study  for 
the  artist  or  sculptor;  not  too  small,  as  I  have  said,  and  of  a 
respectable  breadth,  the  flesh  firm  and  lightly  colored,  the 
thumb  not  weak,  as  it  so  often  is  in  a  woman's  hand,  the 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  2J 

fingers  smooth  and  slightly  tapering  to  a  delicate  squareness 
at  the  tips,  the  nails  long  and  curved,  the  finger-tips  rounded 
on  their  surfaces  into  that  little  cushion  of  flesh,  sure  sign  of 
sensitiveness  in  a  hand ;  the  whole  exquisitely  flexible,  the 

"  Gentile  morbida  leggiadra  mano 
Cui  fer  le  proprie  mani  d'Aurora  * 

of  Paolo  Rossi.  And,  above  all,  her  head,  which  for  very 
fear  I  have  left  until  last !  A  head  not  too  small,  covered  with 
masses  of  hair  that  would  have  been  black  but  for  the  red- 
dish lights  that  flashed  through  it  when  she  moved,  hair  that 
came  low  on  a  broad,  clear  forehead,  bounded  by  straight 
and  rather  heavy,  dark  eyebrows,  from  beneath  which  a  pair 
of  great  dark-brown  eyes  looked  straight  into  one's  soul. 
The  nose  straight  as  we  see  it  on  a  Greek  coin,  the  mouth 
firm,  but  finely,  almost  sensuously,  curved,  the  jaw  square 
and  strong,  the  whole  complexion  pale  rather  than  coloured 
— and  there  you  have  the  portrait  of  the  Princess  Daphne. 
Yes !  to  the  cognoscenti  she  could  never  be  anything  but  a 
Creole ;  but  nature  had  been  kinder  to  her  than  to  most  of 
her  race, — she  had  not,  in  producing  perfection  of  form,  ex- 
hausted her  creative  energy,  but  had  endowed  this  imperial 
woman  with  a  brain  no  whit  behind  her  physical  develop- 
ment ;  and  though  she  was  equally  amiable  to  the  entire 
colony  among  which  she  lived,  her  especial  cronies  realized 
— and  fully  realized — that  they  were  lucky  indeed. 

"Am  I  too  fashionably  late  to  expect  absolution?"  said 
she,  as  she  surveyed  the  group,  "  or  has  Sir  George  prepared 
a  gracious  forgiveness  for  me  ?  " 

"  The  Princess  can  do  no  wrong — sta  felice  alia  casa"  re- 
plied Gabriel,  gallantly,  as  the  girl  stepped  into  the  studio 
with  a  little  laugh,  and  greeted  the  company  with  a  series  of 
"  nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles." 

"  I  have  been  doing  combat  with  our  natural  foe,  the  art- 
dealer,"  said  she.  "  The  particular  specimen  of  to-night 
thought  to  catch  me  in  a  good  humour  after  food,  and  buy 
a  miscellaneous  lot  by  gaslight,  for  ready  but  insufficient 


2g  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

cash.  I  am  proud  to  say  that  I  resisted,  and  told  him  to 
come  back  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  probably  be  suffering 
from  this  evening's  dissipation,  and  be  in  too  bad  a  temper 
to  make  him  any  concessions." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  Bernard  Rawlinson ; 
"  if  Art-dealers  were  not  as  a  class — well,  let  us  say — stupid, 
they  would  buy  pictures  on  gastronomic  and  barometric 
principles.  Take  my  own.  case,  for  instance  :  '  Metiri  se 
quemque  suo  modulo  w"hat's-his-name,'  as  the  classic  has  it. 
If  I  have  looked  in  on  Gabriel  in  the  morning,  and  feasted 
on  half-cooked  muffins,  I  spend  the  afternoon  meditating  an 
essay  on  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  Remorse.'  At  such 
times  the  dealer  has  no  chance ;  nor  has  he  any  luck  when 
the  weather  is  on  my  nerves;  but  if  it  is  a  fine  day  and  I 
have  had  tea  at  the  Princess's,  I  become  kindly  disposed 
towards  him,  and  take  his  paltry  shekels  in  exchange  for 
works  of  art  worth  treble — in  my  estimation, — and  merely 
smile  a  wan  smile  of  pity  when  he  declares  that  he  is  ruin- 
ing himself  to  save  me  from  starvation,  on  strictly  philan- 
thropic principles.  To  paraphrase  Byron,  '  Now  Barabbas 
was  an  art-dealer.'  " 

"  But  why  talk  of  funerals,  physic,  and  art-dealers  ? "  cried 
Lindsay ;  "  let  us  rather  make  music.  Miss  Trevethick, 
won't  you  twankle  on  the  harpsichord  for  us  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Maye  ;  "  I'll  play  you  a  little  thing  of 
my  own.  I  call  it  '  Funeral  March  of  the  Hanging  Com- 
mittee,' and  I  am  going  to  dedicate  it  by  special  permission 

to  Sir  George  B ; "  and  she  began  to  run  her  fingers  over 

the  keys,  first  in  playful,  catchy  fantasy,  drifting  thence  into 
pure  tunefulness,  and  ending  with  a  grand,  rich  fugue  that 
left  the  assembled  crowd  wondering  at  its  meaning,  so 
strange  and  suggestive  was  the  leit-motif  that  crept  into  the 
harmonies  at  every  moment,  or  anon  would  stand  out  by  itself 
in  a  bit  of  exquisite  melody.  When  she  finished,  a  dead  si- 
lence had  fallen  on  the  gathering,  broken  only  by  the  Prin- 
cess's ejaculation  of,  "  Thanks,  dear  ;  it's  very  sweet  of  you 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  2Q 

to  exhaust  yourself  like  that  for  our  selfish,  but  appreciative 
edification." 

"  What  I  like  about  Miss  Trevethick's  music,"  remarked 
Lindsay,  "is  that  she  gives  no  chances  to  the  social  fiend, 
the  man  who*  beats  time,  or  whistles  the  air  if  he  knows  it, 
or  insists  on  turning  over  the  music." 

"  Poor  Lindsay  !  "  said  Markham  ;  "  one  would  think  he 
had  been  himself  a  sufferer,  though  I  doubt  whether  he 
knows  the  difference  between  a  piano  and  a  penny-whistle." 

"  True  !  I  have  not  suffered  from  the  musical  fiend ;  my 
betes  noires  are  the  Story  Fiend  and  the  Introduction  Fiend. 
Some  day  I  shall  write  an  essay  on  Social  Fiends,  and  clear 
off  old  scores.  Yet,  after  all,  the  Social  Fiend  is  only  a 
product  of  high  civilization  and  cultivation,  and  will  in- 
crease, I  suppose,  rather  than  decrease." 

"  Explain  !  Define  !  Speech  !  Speech  ! "  was  the  cry ; 
and  Lindsay,  after  looking  helplessly  around  for  a  few 
seconds,  thus  held  forth  : 

"  What  I  mean  by  my  introduction,"  said  he,  "  is  that  the 
fiendishness  of  the  Social  Fiend  generally  results  from  the 
perversion  of  some  high  quality,  which,  kept  within  proper 
limits,  would  inspire  our  respect,  e.g.,  musical,  literary,  or 
dramatic  talent. 

"  The  social  fiend  is  of  two  classes — or  declensions — the 
active  and  the  passive ;  or  perhaps  it  would  better  express  my 
meaning  if  I  were  to  say,  transitive  and  neuter.  To  the 
former  fiend  one  stands  in  some  measure  in  the  light  of  a 
foil ;  one's  presence,  and  to  a  certain  extent  one's  coopera- 
tion is  necessary  to  him  ;  one  inflicts  him  on  one's  self,  so  to 
speak,  and  consequently  he  may  be  avoided  with  care,  and 
discretion,  and  practice,  and  presence  of  mind.  The  latter, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  a  fiend  all  by  himself;  he  can  sit  alone 
and  exercise  his  fiendishness,  disseminating  it  quasi-uncon- 
sciously  all  around  him  ;  he  cannot  be  avoided ;  in  his  case, 
absence  of  body  is  preferable  to  presence  of  mind;  you 
must  get  up  and  go  away  ! 

"  Thus  much  by  way  of  introduction.     We  can  now,  in  the 


3Q  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

words  of  the  classic,  '  cut  the  dialogue,   and  come  to  the 
figures.' 

"On  mature  reflection  I  think  that  the  most  drastic  and 
damnable  kind  of  musico-social  fiend  is  the  man  who  taps  with 
his  foot  when  music  is  being  played.  The  man"  (his  brother 
cadet)  who  hums  the  tune  in  an  undertone,  or  gently  whistles 
an  accompaniment,  pales  into  insignificance  before  him. 
The  affliction  arises  from  a  diseased  musical  ear,  a  patholog- 
ical condition,  I  believe,  unknown  to  the  aurist.  .1  once 
knew  one  of  this  class  who  tried  to  beat  time  to  Wotan's 
fifty-minute  recitative  in  the  '  Siegfried  '  of  Wagner  (the  sin 
was  its  own  punishment — he  was  carried  out  in  convulsions)  ; 
but  it  is  the  slow  waltz  or  quick  march  that  principally  draws 
forth  his  natural  corruption.  An  air  is  being  played ; — sud- 
denly you  become  aware  of  a  little  measured  thud  on  the 
brain  repeated  at  regular  intervals ;  you  tap  your  ear  and 
reconcentrate  your  attention  : — in  vain  !  the  tap,  tap,  tap 
seems  to  become  a  kind  of  devil's  tatoo  on  your  inmost 
soul  :  the  rest  of  the  audience  also  gradually  wake  to  the 
fact,  and  a  scared  expression  spreads  itself  around,  whilst 
the  entire  assistance  ignores  the  music,  and  begins  search- 
ing for  the  fiend.  At  last  you  find  him,  a  mild-mannered 
youth  with  a  wisp  of  hair  bristling  at  the  crown  of  his  head, 
with  large  hands  and  a  pale  face — absorbed,  concentrated 
in  the  music ;  his  right  foot  is  merrily  accompanying  the 
melody ;  he  is  as  unconscious  as  a  young  organ-grinder  of 
the  grief  that  he  is  causing ;  he  doesn't  see  the  cyclonic 
glares  directed  at  him,  not  he  !  He  is  only  mildly  surprised 
thatjhe  alone  applauds  at  the  end  of  the  performance  ;  the 
rest  of  the  audience  is  only  waiting  for  the  end  of  his,  and 
merely  regards  the  musician  as  a  kind  of  accomplice.  The 
tapper  has  '  queered  the  show,'  but  he  doesn't  realize  the 
fact.  The  only  person  who  is  similarly  self-satisfied  is  his 
brother  fiend  who  has  been  softly  whistling  the  air  between 
his  teeth  all  the  time ;  and  this  improvised  drum-and-fife 
band  forms  a  kind  of  link  of  brotherhood — hitherto  unrec- 
ognized— between  them.  These  fiends  have,  as  I  say, 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  3 1 

fallen  from  a  high  but  uncultivated  musical  taste,  like  the 
fiend  who  insists  upon  turning  the  leaves  for  the  pianistc. 
His  radius  of  iniquity  is  often  more  circumscribed ;  it  may 
extend  only  to  the  lady  playing,  her  chaperone  who  doubts 
his  capacity,  and  the  man  who  wishes  he  could  perform  this 
office  for  the  fair  #/-//.?/£.•  if  the  leaf-turner  is  sure  of  himself 
it  is  all  right  for  the  others  ;  but  as  a  rule  he  isn't.  He  only 
does  it  '  to  show  off ' ;  and  his  anxious,  conscience-stricken 
face,  as  he  stares  blankly  at  the  page,  wondering  where  the 
deuce  and  all  the  player  has  got  to,  gradually  betrays  his 
mental  state  to  the  audience,  and  they  sit  writhing  with  ap- 
prehension till  the  artiste  makes  a  convulsive  bob  of  the 
head,  the  fiend  makes  a  wild  dive,  and  it  is  five  to  one  he 
drops  a  leaf  on  the  floor  and  replaces  it  upside  down.  If  he 
doesn't  the  audience  breathes  freely  for  another  five  minutes, 
and  so  on  at  intervals,  until  the  fiend  perspires,  apologizes, 
is  frigidly  thanked,  and  retires  into  his  pristine  insignifi- 
cance to  reflect  upon  the  impression  he  has  produced. 

"  There  are  other  musical  fiends  that  we  all  know : — the 
man  who  insists  on  being  told  the  name  of  the  piece  played, 
and  the  man  who  tells  him — wrong  ;  the  man  who,  in  the 
dead  silence  that  follows  a  performance,  is  heard  remarking 
that  he  heard  Rubinstein  play — or  Sims  Reeves  sing — that 
particular  thing ;  the  man  who  tells  the  lady  performer,  at 
the  conclusion  of  a  carefully  learnt  English  song,  that  he  is 
'  so  fond  of  those  weird  little  Arabic  chaunts.3  And  so  on — 
and  so  on — and  so  on  ! 

"  The  musical  fiend,  of  whatever  sort,  is  the  best  specimen 
of  the  neuter  declension.  The  most  perfect  exemplification 
of  the  transitive  class  are  the  story  fiends,  whether  active  or 
passive.  Among  the  active  ones,  of  course  I  will  not  refer 
to  the  retailer  of  '  chestnuts,'  the  man  who  tells  you  the  orig- 
inal story  for  telling  him  which  Cain  killed  Abel ;  or  the 
man  who  tells  a  story  inside  out,  i.e.,  gives  you  the  point 
seriously,  and  wonders  that  you  don't  laugh  as  he  concludes 
with  the  introduction  thereto  ;  or  the  man  who  tells  you  a 
story  that  you  know  of  old,  and  leaving  out  the  point  alto- 


32  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

gather,  gets  mad  when  you  bring  him  safely  onto  the  track 
once  more.  All  these  are  too  common  for  the  esoteric  pro- 
fundity of  this  sermon.  The  story  fiend  I  hate  is  the  man 
who  with  much  pantomime  tells  you  a  pointless  old  yarn  for 
the  purpose  of  impressing  with  his  wit  and  eloquence  a  girl 
across  the  room  whom  he  hopes  is  looking  at  him  and  taking 
in  his  performance. 

"  Similarly  do  I  hate  certain  story  fiends  of  the  recipient 
variety.  For  instance,  the  converse  of  the  last  fiend,  who, 
whilst  you  are  telling  him  your  latest  and  best,  is  making 
eyes  across  the  room,  and  gauging  the  effect  upon  her,  and 
when  you  come  to  the  point  where  you  should  be  interrupted 
by  a  smile,  and  wait  for  it  accordingly,  turns  an  absent- 
minded,  lack-lustre  gaze  upon  you  and  ejaculates  spasmodi- 
cally, '  Oh  !  ah  !  yes  !  Haha  !  very  good — and  what  became 
of  the  boy?'— or  some  torn-foolery  of  that  sort.  Only  one 
degree  removed  from  him  is  the  man  who,  instead  of  listen- 
ing to  your  yarn,  keeps  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  about 
six  feet  in  front  of  him,  racking  his  brain  to  think  of  a  story 
on  his  own  account,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  your  effort, 
instead  of  grinning  appreciatively,  chips  in  like  an  east  wind 
chased  by  lightning  with  '  Ah !  yes,  and  that  reminds  me  of 
a  story,'  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Ugh !  there's  a  brute  for  you !  And 
yet  how  common  ! 

"Then  you  have  the  fiend  who  tells  you  a  long  yarn, 
usually  concerning  his  own  prowess  in  the  Camp  of  Mars 
and  the  Court  of  Venus,  when  you  are  dying  to  skip  over 
unconcernedly  and  take  the  seat  just  vacated  by  her  side. 
You  are  like  the  Pool  of  Bethesda  ;  whilst  the  descended 
angel  troubles  you,  someone  else  steps  in  and  reaps  the 
benefit. 

"  And  again,  what  a  fruitful  field  for  abstract  and  experi- 
mental objurgation  is  the  introduction  fiend — the  man  who 
insists  on  being  introduced  to  you,  and  the  man  who  insists 
on  your  introducing  him  to  So-and-So ! — the  man  who  grasps 
your  hand  with  an  eighty-one  ton  crunch  and  says,  'We 
have  a  mutual  friend  in  Mrs.  X. ;  she  has  often  spoken  to 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  33 

me  of  you.'  You  have  never  heard  of  Mrs.  X.,  and  don't 
believe  in  her  existence,  but  you  daren't  say  so,  for  fear  that 
he  will  queer  you  with  some  pleasant  acquaintance  whose 
name  you  haven't  caught ;  so  you  put  your  head  on  one  side 
like  a  contemplative  parrot,  and  say,  '  Oh  yes !  And  how 
was  Mrs.  X.  when  last  you  saw  her?' — praying  inwardly 
that  you  are  not,  both  of  you,  constructively,  liars. 

"  And  then  the  man  who  says  genially,  '  Oh !  is  this  Mr. 
X  ? '  in  much  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  Uriah's  wife  is  said 
to  have  remarked,  on  her  first  introduction  to  David,  '  Is 
this  the  youth  who  slew  the  great  Goliath  ? '  Or  the  man 
who  says  treacherously,  '  Oh  !  Mr.  Z.,  I've  heard  so  much  of 
you  ; '  you  break  into  a  cold  perspiration  and  wonder  what 
he's  heard  about  you,  and  from  whom.  But,  good  heavens  ! 
I've  been  lecturing  for  half  an  hour — believe  me,  I  apologize 
— somebody  else  do  something  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of 
my  harangue !  " 

Lindsay  stopped,  and  the  laughter  which  had  rippled 
through  his  discourse  culminated  in  a  storm  of  delighted 
applause,  in  the  midst  of  which  Maye  set  forth  the  more 
solid  baked  meats,  and  the  company  proceeded  to  picnic. 

Whilst  they  ate,  Bernard  Rawlinson  recited  to  them,  and 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  little  repast,  Gabriel,  with  much 
pomp  and  circumstance,  asked  the  Princess  on  behalf  of  the 
men  to  permit  them  on  behalf  of  the  ladies  to  smoke. 

"  Well,"  replied  she,  "  of  course  it  is  understood  that  we 
all  dislike  smoke  exceedingly,  and  regard  the  use  of  tobacco 
as  wholly  vile ;  but  on  this  single  occasion  we  will  not  only 
permit,  but  countenance,  the  proceeding." 

So  saying  she  produced  a  silver  cigarette-case  and  select- 
ing a  cigarette  for  herself  handed  it  to  Sylvia  Easton,  who 
did  the  same  and  passed  it  on  to  the  other  girls.  This  was 
carried  through  with  the  utmost  gravity,  and  the  symposium 
continued  amid  the  soft  blue  fumes  of  the  weed  nicotian, 
unsupported,  however,  by  Sir  George  and  Mrs.  Hawleigh, 
who  had  slipped  away  softly,  for  fear  of  breaking  up  the 
party  by  their  departure. 
3 


34  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

It  was  one  of  those  delightful  evenings  in  which  everyone 
does  something.  The  two  Eastons  played  a  duet,  and  after 
that  Gabriel  and  Maye  were  persuaded  to  do  likewise. 
When  Gabriel  played  in  public  it  was  a  thing  to  hear,  for  it 
seldom  took  place  :  his  fiddle  was  to  him  his  confessional, 
his  confessor,  and  his  confession  ;  and  if  we  are  to  accept 
Neil  Gow's  axiom,  that  "  a  mon's  a  player  when  he  gar  him- 
sel'  greet  wi'  his  fiddle,"  Gabriel  Hawleigh  was  a  player  in- 
deed ;  for  his  playing  was  the  very  soul,  the  very  agony  of 
music,  and  often,  when  he  had  a  melancholy  fit  on  him,  he 
would  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  his  small  but  appreciative 
audience,  consisting,  as  a  rule,  of  Maye  and  Mrs.  Hawleigh. 

To-night,  however,  he  was  in  his  more  enthusiastic,  fiend- 
ish mood,  and  tore  out  of  his  fiddle  a  brilliant  suite  of  wild 
Czardas,  drawing  Maye  irresistibly  along  with  him  as  she 
played  the  piano  accompaniment,  and  winding  up  with  a 
wild,  triumphant  solo  of  barbaric  melody,  that  roused  his 
audience  as  if  it  had  been  a  thunderstorm  of  harmonies. 

This  solo  terminated  in  a  roar  of  enthusiasm,  during 
which  he  recovered  his  senses,  as  it  were,  and  when  it  sub- 
sided he  seized  the  opportunity  to  fall  on  one  knee  before 
the  Princess  Daphne,  saying  : 

"  Like  the  King's  minstrel  I  crave  a  boon,  Princess." 

"  It  is  granted,  Ser  Menestrel — what  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  you  sing  for  us." 

"  Oh,  you  wretch  !"  exclaimed  she.  "If  I  had  guessed — 
but  I've  promised,  so  I  suppose  I  must ; "  and  amid  the 
delighted  acclamations  of  the  crowd,  Daphne  Preault  moved 
to  the  piano. 

"After  that  gorgeous  performance  of  Gabriel  and  Maye's, 
I  can't  sing  any  of  my  French  repertoire  to  you  ;  here  is  a 
little  Cuban  suite  of  melodies,  in  the  Cuban  dialect;  it  is 
supposed  to  be  a  triumphal  song  of  a  woman's  self-sacrifice." 

She  began  in  a  low,  soft  minor  key,  a  weird,  half-monot- 
onous melody  of  which  every  note  seemed  to  thrill  the  very 
souls  of  the  listeners ;  then,  just  as  the  depth  of  despair 
seemed  to  have  been  reached  in  the  music,  the  major  inver- 


A  BOHEMIAN  SOIREE.  35 

sion  of  the  chord  was  heard  in  the  bass,  the  treble  took  it 
up,  and  the  lament  became  a  grand,  almost  military  chaunt, 
that  ended  abruptly  with  an  unheralded  minor  harmony. 
Daphne  Pre'ault  had  the  pure,  rich  contralto  of  the  south, 
and  threw  herself  into  her  music  in  a  way  that  used  to  make 
her  listeners  tremble.  Like  Gabriel,  she  seldom  flung  the 
glories  of  her  art  before  the  public,  which  made  it  all  the 
more  an  event  to  remember  when  she  did  sing  ;  and  to-night 
undoubtedly  she  eclipsed  herself. 

On  one  at  least  of  the  company  she  had  made  an  impres- 
sion not  likely  to  be  soon  effaced  :  he  sat  on  a  long,  low, 
carved  chest,  with  his  head  resting  in  his  clasped  hands  as 
he  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  soul  far  away  on  the  wings  of 
the  music,  forgetful  of  everything  save  the  grand  orgy  of 
sound.  When  the  music  ceased  his  eyes  turned  with  an 
expression  of  dumb  wonder  in  the  direction  of  the  singer, 
and,  attracted  perhaps  by  the  intensity  of  his  gaze,  her  eyes 
sought  his.  The  Princess  Daphne  resumed  her  seat  quietly. 
The  man  was  Eric  Trevanion. 

And  so,  amid  music  and  conversation,  light  tobacco  and 
light  refreshments,  the  evening  wore  on.  To  an  historian 
much  latitude  and  meanness  and  betrayal  of  confidence  are 
allowed,  but  I  do  not  propose  to  divulge  the  tale  which  was 
told  by  the  clock  as  the  last  guests — Gerome  Markham  and 
Dick  Lindsay — concealed  about  their  persons  a  stirrup-cup 
proffered  by  Gabriel,  who  then,  turning  out  the  gas  and 
contemplatively  munching  a  biscuit,  wandered  up  to  bed. 
The  Princess  had  been  the  last  girl-guest  to  go,  escorted  by 
Eric  Trevanion  ;  and  then  Maye  Trevethick  had  softly  and 
silently  vanished  away,  leaving  a  small  male  group  to  talk 
unrestrained  "  shop  "  into  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 

The  Bohemian  soirte  was  ended,  and  the  Empress,  on 
the  following  morning,  expressed  a  hope  that  there  might 
not  very  soon  be  another. 


CHAPTER   II. 

UNE    MAfTRESSE    FEMME. 

FROM  Holland  Street,  London,  to  Forty-first  Street,  New 
York  City,  is  a  far  cry, — three  thousand  miles  or  more, — but 
though  we  have  transported  ourselves,  Aladdin-like,  across 
the  site  of  the  submerged  continent  of  which  Ancient  Egypt 
was  a  colony,  and  Yucatan  a  young  dependency, — according 
to  Ignatius  Donnelly, — and  have  reached  the  commercial 
capital  of  that  "great  aristocratico-oligarchical  democracy 
where  all  men  are  equal  and  none  of  the  women,"  we  are 
still  in  Bohemia,  though  it  is  Bohemia  of  a  very  different 
order  from  that  which  we  have  left  behind  us  in  the  old 
world. 

The  American  autumn  was  much  like  the  English  one  in 
temperature ;  only  its  outward  and  visible  signs  were  differ- 
ent. In  the  squares,  the  asphalt  was  strewn  thick  with 
broad  golden  and  bronze  leaves,  and  the  water  drawn  off 
from  the  fountain-basins  had  left  hideously  bare  the  roots  of 
the  lilies  and  lotuses  and  other  semi-tropical  water-plants, 
whose  flowers  had  been  so  good  to  look  upon  during  the 
empty  summer  months,  and  whose  leaves,  decaying,  were 
watched  with  almost  vulture-like  impatience  by  the  municipal 
gardeners,  who  were  waiting  for  their  death  to  lift  bodily  the 
great  square  boxes  of  roots,  to  be  put  away  for  the  winter,  or 
to  cover  them  with  the  fallen  leaves.  In  Central  Park,  and 
in  the  open  lots  up  beyond  One  Hundred  and  Fortieth 
Street,  the  crimson  awns  of  the  sumach  were  beginning  to 
bow  reverence  to  the  autumn  winds,  and  save  and  except 
that  now  and  then  summer  seemed  to  have  left  a  day  behind; 
and  to  have  come  back  to  look  for  it,  the  new  world,  like 
the  old,  was  preparing  for  winter. 

36 


UNE  MAfTKESSE  FEMME.  37 

In  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of  a  house  on  Forty-first  Street, 
whose  number  lay  in  the  first  hundred,  but  is  immaterial 
to  our  story,  the  morning  light  streams  in  upon  a  small,  sup- 
ple figure  which  lies  curled  up  on  a  low  divan, — a  divan  so 
colossal  in  its  proportions  that  the  figure  looks  even  smaller 
than  it  is, — and  illuminates  a  picture  that  tells  its  own  story 
to  the  inquisitive  sunbeams.  The  room,  which  is  large, 
though  furnished  in  the  main  with  the  faded  elegance  that 
announces  the  lodging-house,  shows  by  a  few  of  its  more 
prominent  objects  that  its  occupant  has  come  thither  from 
haunts  of  luxury  and  taste.  The  observant  eye  can  pick  out 
at  a  glance  the  objects  that  are  the  property  of  the  woman 
who  lies  on  the  divan  in  the  reckless  abandon  of  sleep,  relics 
of  former  years  when  her  footsteps  fell  in  softer  places. 
An  inlaid  piano  by  Steinway,  a  screen  of  rare  Japanese 
brocade,  a  proof-etching  or  two.  a  masterpiece  of  Meis- 
sonier,  and  an  unfinished  sketch  by  an  artist  whose  name 
gives  market  value  to  a  line  drawn  across  a  sheet  of  mill- 
board, some  matchless  Satsuma  and  Kaga  porcelain,  and 
some  scraps  of  rare  stuffs  thrown  across  chairs  of  bastard 
design,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  conceal  their  illegitimacy — all 
bespeak  the  artiste,  the  woman  of  refined  taste.  The  floor 
is  covered  with  a  matting  of  scented  Indian  grasses,  that 
fills  the  air  with  a  quaint,  pungent  odour,  and  over  it  are 
strewn  tattered  but  glorious  Persian  and  Turkish  rugs. 

But  what  catches  the  eye  and  holds  the  senses,  taking 
prisoner  the  imagination,  is  the  divan  on  which  the  little 
immobile  live  thing  rests.  It  is  very  large  and  very  low, 
covered  in  brown  satin  and  furs,  and  cumbered  with  huge 
cushions  of  varied  but  harmoniously  combined  coloured  silks. 
A  great  sheet  of  rich  brocade  is  drawn  in  a  crumpled  mass 
to  a  corner,  and  is  falling  on  the  ground  over  the  edge  of 
the  divan ;  the  cushions  are  doubled  up  and  punched  into 
numberless  odd  shapes,  their  corners  sticking  out  in  all 
directions ;  and  blottie  among  them  is  the  small,  supple, 
sleeping  form  of  the  woman,  whose  individuality  harmonizes 
to  admiration  with  her  surroundings.  Her  attitude,  which 


38  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

would  strike  the  ignorant  observer  as  intensely  uncomfort- 
able, so  curled  and  twisted  does  it  seem,  looks,  in  her  case,  per- 
fectly natural  and  easy.  She  is  but  half  undressed,  and  must 
have  fallen  asleep  almost  unconsciously,  when,  in  the  conflict 
of  Morpheus  and  Eros,  exhaustion  had  overtaken  her  una- 
wares. At  least  it  appears  so  ;  every  line  of  the  dormant 
figure  and  its  minutest  details  reveal  a  delicious  lassitude. 
One  little  foot,  in  a  slipper  of  gold  brocade,  rests  on  the 
floor ;  the  other  slipper  has  fallen  off,  and  the  foot  is  drawn 
up  under  the  figure.  The  light  silk  covering  has  slipped 
away,  revealing  a  stocking  of  open-worked  gold-green  silk 
stretched  over  curves  to  which  it  clings  as  if  fearful  of  mar- 
ring their  beauty  by  the  slightest  suspicion  of  a  wrinkle,  and 
heightens  the  dazzling  tints  of  a  glimpse  of  the  satin-like 
skin,  that  sleep  has  indiscreetly  revealed  above  the  stocking. 

It  is  only  a  glimpse,  for  a  "  mysteriette  "  of  pink  silk  cov- 
ers the  rest  of  the  figure,  without  hiding  its  delicate,  sensu- 
ous curves — only  making  the  picture  more  indefinite  and 
more  alluring  by  adding  the  subtle  charm  of  the  unseen  to 
charms  which  the  imagination  grasps  without  difficulty. 

She  lies  deep  among  the  cushions,  her  head  thrown  back 
in  a  mass  of  shiny  hair  of  a  bronzed,  burnt  gold,  which, 
uniting  with  the  purple  brown  of  the  divan,  makes  an  ex- 
quisite background  for  the  pale  shell-pink  of  her  skin.  The 
stream  of  light  which  steals  into  the  darkened  room  lies  in  a 
solid  ray  across  the  divan,  shedding  over  the  sleeping  figure 
a  glow  which  seems  not  to  illuminate  it,  but  to  be  shed  by 
the  figure  itself  upon  the  surrounding  brocades;  and  so,  a 
perfectly  natural  effect  of  light  seems  to  become  a  weird, 
spectral  mystery.  The  dead  stillness  of  the  world,  the  halo 
environing  the  sleeping  woman,  the  dim  light  pervading  all 
else  in  the  room,  combine  to  make  a  picture  which  embodies 
all  that  there  is  of  sensuous  poesy  in  real  life. 

The  delicate  brows,  the  finely-curved  lips,  the  curved  nos- 
trils, and  subtly-rounded  chin,  betray  the  woman's  Oriental 
origin  ;  and  if  any  doubt  remained  on  the  point  it  is  dis- 
pelled when,  without  any  start  or  visible  effort  of  awakening, 


UNE  MAJTRESSE  FEMME.  39 

Mahmoure  di  Zulueta  opens  her  grand,  brown  eyes  and,  with 
a  movement  of  intense,  unconscious  longing,  stretches  out 
her  arms  to  the  empty  air,  and  encountering  naught  save  a 
tumbled  cushion,  grasps  a  fold  of  it  with  a  little  feverish 
clutch  as,  using  her  arm  lever-wise,  she  gives  her  whole  body 
a  comprehensive  voluptuous  twist  that  hides  the  scrap  of 
skin  that  dazzled  the  sunbeam,  beneath  the  falling  folds  of 
silk,  and  sinks  back  into  the  cushions  with  a  scarce  satisfied 
sigh.  As  she  does  so  her  hand  encounters  something  hid- 
den among  the  cushions  :  she  draws  it  forth  and  recognizes 
it  with  a  smile  of  happy  recollection.  It  is  a  portrait — it 
had  been  her  last  thought  as  she  sank  to  sleep,  and  is  her 
first  on  waking ;  and  as  she  holds  it  before  her,  it  brings  a 
warmer  tint  to  her  cheek,  a  brighter  glow  to  her  dark  eyes. 
The  face  before  her,  be  it  by  reason  of  the  photographer's 
art  or  of  the  individuality  of  the  original,  is  one  of  great 
beauty,  intense,  delicate,  and  very  youthful,  so  youthful 
indeed  that  at  a  first  glance  it  might  be  taken  for  that  of  a 
mere  boy,  but  on  closer  inspection  one  discovers  in  it  a  firm* 
ness,  enhanced  by  the  high  intelligence  of  the  brow;  and 
the  woman  gazing  at  the  picture  through  her  half-closed  eyes 
sees  there  the  self  hidden  behind  the  mask.  To  all  else  he 
may  be  and  is  what  he  chooses  ;  to  her  his  inmost  being  is 
revealed,  and  through  the  changeless,  senseless  reflection, 
she  sees  the  thousand  flashes  of  the  master  passion  which 
she,  and  she  alone,  has  bred  within  him — a  passion  of  which 
he  had  always  laughingly  declared  himself  incapable. 

And  concerning  the  woman  herself,  the  supple  Eastern 
woman  with  the  strange  Eastern  name — Mahmoure  di 
Zulueta  ?  There  is,  I  know,  something  inexpressibly  tedious 
in  the  "  previous  histories "  of  heroes  and  heroines  of 
romance.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  made  a  former  chapter 
of  that  of  Mahmoure',  for  it  is  quite  quaint  enough  to  spur  a 
biographer  to  his  highest  effort  in  this  particular  branch  of 
natural  history.  I  am  not  going  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of 
whether  her  history  was  stranger  than  her  nature,  or  whether 
her  nature  was  stranger  than  her  history ;  whether  her  his- 


4O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

tory  was  the  result  of  her  nature,  or  rice  versd.  Without  the 
remotest  tendency  to  mediocrity  she  was  neither  very  good 
nor  very  bad  ;  she  was  always  rather  both,  and  often  very 
much  one  of  them;  the  world  being  divided,  admittedly,  into 
men,  women — and  Mahmoure  di  Zulueta.  Probably  it  was  an 
effect  of  her  home  training,  the  tender  influences  of  a  father 
and  mother  who  worshipped  her,  that  prevented  the  bad  in 
her  from  developing  to  its  fullest  extent.  It  is  thus  that 
many  great  characters  in  history  are  spoilt,  are,  as  it  were, 
still-born.  Without  the  refining  influences  of  her  home 
Mahmoure'  would  have  been  historic,  but  whether  as  a  Val- 
liere,  a  Brinvilliers,  a  Bradamante,  or  a  Lola  Montez,  far  be 
it  from  the  present  historian  to  hazard  a  conjecture. 

Her  early  years  were  monotonous,  spent  between  the 
English  home  where  she  found  her  level  in  gentle,  common- 
place family  affection,  and  the  continental  conservatoire  where 
she  laboured  from  an  early  age  for  the  development  of  the 
talent  that  should  some  day  make  her  famous;  for  her  father, 
himself  an  artist  of  great  enthusiasm  and  judgment, — two 
rarely  concomitant  attributes, — strained  his  every  resource  to 
fit  her  for  the  position  which  he  felt  she  was  bound  to 
attain.  She  rewarded  him  for  all  his  bitter  struggles  (and 
God  alone  knows  what  privations  he  had  endured  for  her)  in 
the  usual  way.  Developed  to  womanhood  at  an  age  when 
most  of  her  sex  are  hardly  out  of  the  nursery,  she  chose  to 
fancy  herself  in  love  ;  and  she  married,  when  barely  fifteen, 
a  complicated  concentration  of  the  lowest  qualities  peculiar 
to  half-a-dozen  nationalities.  The  name  of  this  mongrel 
was  di  Zulueta.  A  friend  of  the  family,  expert  in  variegated 
genealogies,  asserted  that  his  father  was  a  Greek  and  his 
mother  an  Italian,  that  he  was  born  on  board  a  Spanish  ship 
in  French  waters,  and  was  a  naturalized  American  citizen 
domiciled  in  England  ! 

It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  attempt  the  impossible,  or  to 
describe  the  abysmal  depths  of  blackguardism  to  which  this 
gutter-bred  cur  had  sunk  by  the  sheer  specific  gravity  of  his 
own  cowardly  vileness  ;  but  he  oozes  into  my  narrative  at 


UNE  MAITRESSE  FEMME.  41 

this  point,  for  he  married  this  child — for  not  only  in  years, 
but  in  everything  else  save  physique,  she  was  a  child  ;  and 
thus  her  first  folly,  the  launch  of  her  "inconsequent  "  career 
(in  the  Balzacian  sense),  was  committed.  Art  for  art's  sake, 
which  might  have  been  to  her  a  gracious,  generous  protec- 
tress, was  thrust  aside,  and  the  first  step  in  her  progress  was 
taken. 

And  what  a  progress  hers  should  have  been  with  the  ma- 
terials at  her  command !  A  gorgeous  voice,  of  gre?at  range 
and  power,  and,  above  all,  of  that  quality  so  rare,  a  perfect 
sympathy — that  one  gift  of  blood  and  race  without  which  the 
finest  voice  becomes  "  as  sounding  brass,  or  tinkling  cym- 
bals." Fantastic  but  dazzling  personal  beauty,  the  matchless 
health  of  a  perfect  constitution,  were  all  factors  in  a  person- 
ality that  should  echo  her  fame  from  world  to  world — and 
the  first  exercise  of  her  will  had  been  to  fling  the  whole 
treasure  of  herself  into  the  grasp  of  a  foul-mouthed,  under- 
bred ruffian. 

The  first  era  of  her  life  may  be  said  to  have  commenced 
with  her  marriage,  which,  though  uneventful  in  itself,  was  a 
fitting  probation  for  what  was  to  follow.  He  was  a  hard  task- 
master to  his  child-wife,  but,  brute  though  he  was,  he  treated 
— from  motives  of  policy — his  golden  goose  with  some  show 
of  affection  :  but  his  coarseness  killed  the  goose.  Had  he 
been  a  clever  rascal  he  might  have  kept  the  girl ;  as  it  was 
he  never  spared  her,  feeling  sure  of  the  obedience  she 
dumbly  gave,  never  looking  deeper  when  some  greater  exac- 
tion than  usual  struck  a  flash  from  the  highly-charged  per- 
sonality he  was  trifling  with.  He  was  consequently  not  a 
little  astonished  when,  one  night,  in  the  presence  of  her 
father,  she  remarked  coolly  and  with  no  passion  or  quiver 
in  her  voice  : 

"  I  am  not  going  to  live  with  you  any  longer." 

Her  father,  who  had  refused  hrs  sanction  to  the  marriage, 
and  loathed  her  husband,  still  did  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
duty,  and  urged  her  to  reconsider  her  decision. 

"  Better  let  me  go  now,  when  there  is  no  man  in  the  case. 


42  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

If  I  wait  six  months  longer,  there  will  be,"  she  had  said, 
calmly  but  quite  characteristically. 

It  was  not  long  before  this  that  she  had  made  her  debut 
on  the  stage,  and  that  debut  had  created  a  furore.  Men 
about  town  had  but  one  topic  of  conversation — this  new  girl 
with  the  great,  wondering,  innocent  eyes;  and  a  Great  Per- 
sonage (as  novelists  love  to  call  libertines  of  the  blood-royal), 
on  his  first  visit  to  the  theatre,  had  sent  for  her.  She  had 
no  idea  of  the  importance  of  the  attention,  and  kept  the  G. 
P.  so  long  waiting  that  the  G.  P.  indignantly  retired.  This 
was  much  commented  upon  in  the  theatre,  and  doubtless 
did  not  escape  the  observation  of  intelligent  managers. 
Throughout  this  period  that  husband  of  hers  was  her  exe- 
crated monster  ;  but  for  her  father's  sake  she  endured  the 
burden,  until  month  after  month  added  feathers  by  the  ton 
to  her  load,  and  at  last  the  result  came  in  the  calm,  dispas- 
sionate words  that  terminated  her  married  life. 

With  the  advent  of  this  relief  departed  every  moral  reserve, 
and  her  vagabond,  Bohemian  imagination  began  to  expand. 
She  had  no  lover  and  wanted  none — later  on  she  had  lovers 
and  still  wanted  none  : — liberty  seemed  so  glorious.  Experi- 
ence had  taught  her  that  man  would  steal  away  from  her  this 
newly  attained  possession  ;  and  the  word  "  Freedom  "  was 
emblazoned  upon  the  oriflamme  that  led  her  into  and  out  of 
every  scrape  that  ornamented  her  life.  She  had  vowed 
never  to  be  enthralled  again  ;  and  she  all  but  kept  her 
vow. 

She  became  the  fashion.  Her  little  rooms,  just  close 
enough  to  Belgrave  Square  to  swear  by,  and  avoid  the  ambi- 
guity of  the  euphemism,  "  South  Belgravia,"  were  the  cher- 
ished haunt  of  the  smartest  men  in  town.  I  say  "  men  " 
advisedly,  for  no  "  man  "  could  boast  one  jot  of  possession. 
Her  own  income  gave  her  independence,  and  she  laughed  at 
the  Richelieus  and  Rochesters  of  \h&  foyer  and  the  coulisses. 
Of  course,  one  or  two  men  more  enterprising  than  the  rest 
sought  by  every  means  to  capture  what,  by  reason  of  its 
impossibility  of  capture,  appeared  a  hundredfold  more 


UNE  MAlTRESSE  FEMME.  43 

attractive  than  it  possibly  was,  and  by  force  of  constant 
pressure  came  very  near  breaking,  if  not  wearing  away,  the 
stone  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  there  was  no  getting  over  the  fact 
that  Mahmourd  remained,  through  sheer  disinclination,  her 
own  mistress — and  nobody  else's.  She  had  plenty  of  "  epi- 
sodes" but  no  "histories." 

Why  follow  her  amid  the  thousand  scenes  of  passion,  real 
and  pretended,  that,  like  every  beautiful  theatrical  Bohe- 
mienne,  she  passed  through — amused  sometimes,  excited 
sometimes,  disgusted  often,  but  touched,  never.  She  kept 
the  foremost  rank  in  her  profession  until,  weary  of  the  reit- 
eration of  unsought  conquest,  she  sought  the  New  World. 
With  all  London  at  her  feet,  she  travelled  three  thousand 
miles  to  find  the  Pygmalion  who  should  quicken  this  worldly 
Galatea  of  European  Bohemia. 

Just  before  she  left  London,  a  celebrated  journalist,  who 
led  a  light-hearted  life  of  libel  and  lickings,  said  to  her : 

"  Dear  child,  why  don't  you  "marry  Lord  Blank  ?  Acting 
as  the  Countess  of  Blank  over  the  water,  you  would  make 
your  fortune — besides,  it  would  be  such  fun  writing  para- 
graphs about  it ;  I  haven't  had  such  a  lovely  chance  since 
my  wife  bolted  with  D ." 

"  Thanks,"  she  had  replied  ;  "  sorry  I  can't  oblige  you — 
but  never  mind.  Get  my  obituary  ready  for  an  emergency, 
and  I'll  leave  you  my  diary  to  work  from." 

Thus  she  reached  New  York;  and  there,  shutting  herself 
up,  she  abandoned  the  world  which  she  found  took  such 
vast  amusement  out  of  her,  and  gave  her  none  in  return, 
living  a  life  of  the  closest  retirement,  a  retirement  from 
which  she  only  emerged  from  time  to  time  with  some  old 
friend  of  her  earlier  days. 

By  this  time  Mahmoure's  age  was — well,  never  mind ;  I 
didn't  intend  to  begin  the  sentence. 

And  thus  four  years  sped  by,  during  which  she  worked 
hard  and  successfully  as  ever.  She  was  the  very  incarna- 
tion of  health,  the  wonder  of  all  who  saw  her,  so  fresh  and 
girlish  was  she  ;  for  all  the  world  judged  her  life — of  which 


44  THE  PKTNCESS  DAPHNE. 

they  knew  nothing — to  be  what  it  might  have  been  had  she 
so  willed  it.  For  in  the  New  World,  as  in  the  Old,  she 
inspired  deep,  wild  passions  which  to  her  were  mere  patho- 
logical curiosities.  She  had  caprices,  of  course  !  but  they 
were  not  what  she  wanted ;  and  at  last  she  became  resigned 
and  made  up  her  mind  that  love,  the  crowning  joy  of  woman- 
hood, was  not  to  be  hers. 

******* 

The  end  came  terribly  and  suddenly.  The  wild,  irregular 
years  of  artist  life  succeeded  at  last  in  undermining  the 
gigantic  constitution,  and  one  day,  in  the  middle  of  a  peal  of 
laughter,  she  fell  to  the  ground,  dyeing  the  white  frou-frou  of 
laces,  the  folds  of  silk,  her  white  satin  couch,  and  the 
masses  of  heavy  exotic  flowers  with  which  she  loved  to  deck 
herself,  with  the  crimson  life-blood  that  welled  from  some 
unseen  injury.  The  picture  was  an  apposite  termination  to 
her  unconventional  life,  as  it  appeared  when,  lying  uncon- 
scious, they  found  her  an  hour  later,  incarnadined  as  if  with 
her  very  soul's  self — the  poor  little  feet  now  so  limp  in  their 
pink  satin  slippers,  with  the  crushed  mass  of  sensuous  flow- 
ers, their  waxy  whiteness  scarce  whiter  than  the  lifeless 
features  of  what  had  been  an  hour  before — Mahmoure'  di 
Zulueta. 

For  five  long,  weary  months  she  lay  between  life  and 
death,  and  then,  her  lovely  figure,  her  overflowing  vitality, 
her  voice, — all,  save  her  beauty,  which  remained,  chastened 
and  refined  by  her  interview  with  the  Dark  Angel, — things  of 
the  past,  Mahmoure  realized  that  the  end  of  her  artist-life 
was  come,  and  relinquishing  the  Bohemia  of  Thespis,  she 
turned  to  that  of  the  Muses,  and  drawing  upon  her  rich 
store  of  experience,  adopted  a  life  of  literature,  seeking  the 
acquaintanceship  and  companionship  of  its  masters. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Paul  du  Peyral  was  pre- 
sented to  ber  in  the  foyer  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House — and  the  introduction  was  a  complete  success. 

When  first  Paul  du  Peyral  had  met  Mahmoure  di  Zulueta 
they  had  immediately  cemented  between  themselves  a  merry 


UNE  MA1TRESSE  FEMME.  45 

bond  of  good-fellowship.  Each  respected  the  talents  of  the 
other ;  on  her  side  there  was  a  certain  curiosity  to  examine 
the  handsome  young  Southerner  who  had  led  such  a  laugh- 
ing, conquering  life  among  the  women  of  two  continents. 
They  had  taken  up  their  cues  the  first  time  he  took  advan- 
tage of  her  permission  to  call  upon  her,  and  had  engaged  in 
a  brilliant  little  battle  of  epigram,  in  which  they  had  talked 
much  irresponsible  philosophy  and  cheap  cynicism,  and  had 
scoffed  at  love  right  merrily,  though,  in  the  minds  of  both, 
there  arose  Balzac's  axiom,  "  qui  parle  d' amour  fait  T  amour" 
to  talk  of  love  is  to  make  love — she,  amused  by  the  con- 
trast between  his  looks  and  his  speech,  the  one  so  young 
and  the  other  so  old ;  and  he,  delighted  at  finding  that  the 
woman  he  had  known  by  sight  and  name  so  long,  was  gifted 
with  a  mental  freedom  so  essentially  identical  with  his  own. 
And  so  their  first  interview  had  passed,  leaving  nothing  but 
an  interest  inspired  by  each  in  the  other's  mind,  with 
enough  danger  mingled  with  it  to  make  them  await  with 
impatience  their  next. 

It  soon  came,  and  was  soon  repeated.  She  used  to  curl 
herself  up  on  the  divan,  whilst  he  walked  about,  and,  half 
seriously,  and  half  laughingly,  talked  about  himself  or 
exchanged  epigrams  with  her  on  platonic  friendship,  which 
they  professed  a  belief  in  outwardly  and  confessed  to  ridi- 
culing inwardly.  They  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  gym- 
nasts delighting  in  their  own  danger,  as  they  danced  on  a 
tight-rope  of  platitude  stretched  across  the  gulf  of  passion. 

This  operation  was  actively  proceeding  one  evening  when 
a  footstep  and  a  knock  announced  the  approach  of  some 
guest  or  other.  As  she  rose  to  open  to  the  new-comer, 
almost  unconscious  of  the  significance  of  her  words,  she  said 
hurriedly,  "  Sit  him  out,  whoever  he  is  !  "  and  admitted  an 
old  and  evidently  harmless  "  family  friend."  He  was  one 
of  those  good,  innocent  creatures  who  attach  themselves  to 
beautiful  women  in  this  capacity,  regretting  every  moment 
of  their  lives  their  harmlessness  and  innocence,  but  clinging 


46  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

to  these  attributes  feverishly  as  their  sole  excuses  for  ex- 
istence. 

His  entry  hastens  the  denouement.  She  has  held  herself  in 
check  when  alone  with  the  man  who,  in  her  soul,  she  has 
begun  to  long  for  with  all  the  passion  of  her  wild  Oriental 
nature,  and  has  purposely  held  herself  at  something  of  a 
tension,  from  pride  rather  than  from  prudery,  so  anxious  is 
she  not  to  let  the  wooing  appear  to  be  hers.  But  now  she 
revels  in  the  luxury  of  "  letting  go,"  protected  as  it  were  by 
the  presence  of  Unnecessary  Respectability.  Her  won- 
drously  supple  body,  following  the  dictates  of  her  scarce- 
formed  passion,  now  writhes  itself  upon  the  divan  into  a 
thousand  unconsciously  exquisite  poses.  Slight  though  it  is, 
Paul  du  Peyral,  deeply  versed  in  the  ways  of  woman,  sees 
the  change,  notes  the  deeper  colour  on  the  lips,  the  brighter 
light  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  he  knows  that  the  end  is  not  far 
off  now.  She  talks  to  the  Unnecessary  Friend  with  a  free- 
dom, an  utter  disregard  for  conventionality,  and  a  reckless 
gayety  that  make  the  Unnecessary  Friend's  mental  hair 
stand  on  end.  He  also  cannot  make  out  why  the  youthful 
stranger  does  not  go  away,  according  to  the  rules  laid  down 
in  the  "  Complete  Manual  of  Etiquette  for  Gentlemen,"  but 
finally,  after  having  made  several  heroic  attempts  to  dislodge 
him,  all  of  which  are  epigrammatically  parried,  and  leave  him 
doubtful  whether  the  youthful  stranger  is  a  paragon  of 
politeness  or  of  impertinence,  he  resigns  himself,  takes  up 
his  unwilling  hat,  and  leaves  them. 

Now  that  they  are  really  alone  a  fear  arises  in  the  minds 
of  both  lest  by  precipitation  the  analysis  may  be  spoilt — to 
borrow  a  phrase  from  the  laboratory.  He  knows  thoroughly 
well  how  one  false  note  would  jar  her  beyond  possibility  of 
re-established  harmony,  so,  adopting  the  tactics  of  Fabius 
Maximus  Cunctator  on  an  historic  occasion,  he  waits.  She 
has  thrown  herself  back  on  the  divan  and  signed  to  him  to 
sit  by  her  side. 

"  May  I  ? "  says  he,  and  sinks  among  the  cushions  at  a 
virtuous  distance. 


UNE  MAITRESSE  FEMME.  47 

Why  can  she  think  of  nothing  clever  to  say  ?  All  she 
does  say  is,  "  Is  not  this  a  lazy  lounge  to  lie  about  on  ?  " 

"  Delicious  !  "  he  answers ;  "  but  then  everything  about 
you  is  so  restful,  so  soothing.  Do  you  know,  for  a  nervous 
man,  as  I  am  (though  it  doesn't  appear),  it  is  an  exquisite 
pleasure  to  be  with  you,  to  sit  near  you,  to  touch  you  ?  " 
He  has  taken  up  one  of  her  hands,  and  is  softly,  nervously, 
playing  with  the  fingers.  "  Do  you  mind  my  playing  with 
this?  it  is  so  pretty." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all !  "  in  the  same  tone  as  she  would  refuse 
another  cup  of  tea. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  magnetized  ?  do  you  believe  in 
electro-biology  ?  "  he  says,  gently  passing  his  fingers  up  to 
her  elbow  and  drawing  them  back  with  a  sensuous,  lingering 
pressure. 

"  I  don't  know — see  if  you  can  do  it." 

He  is  apparently  wholly  and  entirely  taken  up  with  his 
experiment,  giving  her  a  chance  to  raise  her  guard,  as  it 
were.  He  does  not  look  at  her,  and  so,  after  awhile,  she 
relaxes ;  a  languor  born  of  his  wonderful  magnetic  touch 
envelops  her,  and  she  looks  at  him,  as  she  thinks,  unseen. 
His  face  is  so  tranquil,  she  cannot  decide  if  it  is  science 
which  at  each  magnetic  pass  leads  his  hand  nearer  to  her 
shoulder.  Her  sleeve  is  loose,  he  has  raised  it — for  pur- 
poses of  his  scientific  experiment.  He  draws  his  sensitive 
fingers  down  her  arm  very  slowly  as  he  says,  "  How  lovely 
these  little  blue  veins  are !  see  this  one,  for  instance." 

He  is  evidently  very  much  interested  in  "this  one,"  for  his 
head  gets  nearer  and  nearer  till  his  lips  touch  the  extended 
arm,  and  rest  there  warm  and  moist.  A  deadly  stillness 
prevails,  as,  with  an  intense  difficulty,  she  suppresses 
the  tremor  caused  by  the  pressure  of  his  lips ;  but  she  for- 
gets that  the  very  suppression  has  caused  a  contraction  of 
the  muscles  that  he  has  felt  and  interpreted.  When  he 
raises  his  head  there  is  a  humidity  about  his  eyes  which 
makes  it  very  difficult  for  her  to  preserve  her  impressive 
appearance.  He  makes  no  movement,  but  only  looks,  with 


48  THE  PK1XCESS  DAPHNE 

that  sweet,  damp  look,  till  she  can  endure  no  longer.  She 
raises  herself  a  little  from  the  cushions  as  if  to  speak,  and 
then  sinks  back,  a  little  nearer  to  the  silent,  imploring  face. 

He  will  not  advance  one  step  apparently.  Suddenly, 
after  a  little  movement,  as  if  of  pain,  she  takes  the  comb 
from  her  hair,  and  the  glorious  mass  falls  all  over  her, 
reminding  him  of  the  picture  of  the  Magdalen  in  the  Pitti 
Palace.  Its  subtle  perfume  seems  to  envelop  him,  and, 
plunging  his  hands  among  the  glistening  threads,  he  buries 
his  face  in  it,  almost  with  a  sob.  She  remains  very,  very 
still.  At  last  he  whispers  : 

"  How  exquisite ! — and  how  sweet  of  you  to  let  me !  " 
And  he  fills  the  mass  of  bronze  gold  with  wild  kisses,  till 
she,  with  a  rapid  movement,  clasps  her  hands  around  his 
neck  and  draws  his  lips  to  hers. 

He  seems  all  entangled  in  her  sweet,  sinuous  embrace. 
At  last  he  takes  his  lips  from  hers  for  a  moment,  and  gazes 
through  her  half-closed  eyes,  and  then,  with  a  little  cry,  he 
gathers  her  up  in  his  arms  and  clasps  her,  panting,  and 

almost  senseless,  to  his  bosom. 

******* 

"  If  you  would  only  love  me  a  little  !  I  know  I  don't  de- 
serve it ;  all  men^say  that,  I  believe  ;  but  in  my  case  it's  true, 
for  I  was  always  worthless.  Won't  you  help  me  to  a  new 
life  ? " 

As  he  spoke  he  crushed  the  little  figure  again  in  his  arms ; 
her  answer  was  scarcely  audible,  so  close  had  she  laid  her 
head  against  his  heart :  "  Do  you  know  how  near  to  death  I 
am  ?  "  and,  as  he  pressed  her  closer  to  him,  the  wan  light 
died  out  of  her  face  and  she  seemed  transfigured.  A  mo- 
ment before,  when  he  had  wound  his  arms  about  her,  her 
features  had  been  worn  and  weary,  scarce  showing  a  trace 
of  reason  for  the  worship  that  had  been  hers,  and  was  hers 
still.  True  hearts  had  ached  to  see  her  look  as  she 
looked  now,  and  to  hear  her  confess  the  wealth  of  her  pas- 
sionate love  in  every  quiver  of  her  rich,  low  voice. 

For  now  her  face  lit  up  with  the  glory  of  a  passion  hitherto 


UNE  MAlTRESSE  FEMAIE.  49 

unknown  in  her  wild,  brilliant  life  ;  the  veil  of  sadness  and 
sickness  faded,  and  left  a  face,  whose  charm  we  are  powerless 
to  judge — can  only  feel.  It  is  not  beauty,  but  something  so 
fascinating,  so  strange,  that  even  the  fresh  young  face  of  a 
beautiful  girl  might  remain  unnoticed  beside  it,  though  she 
is  on  that  borderland  between  youth  and  age  so  dreaded  by 
a  woman  who  has  had  a  far  greater  portion  than  her  share 
of  the  world's  admiration  and  man's  homage  at  her  feet. 

And  he  who  holds  the  little  figure  in  so  close  an  embrace 
— look  at  him  as  he  stands,  glorified  by  his  perfect  youth  and 
strength.  Tall,  heavily  but  lithely  built,  a  strong  head  set 
massively  on  such  shoulders  as  woman  loves  to  look  upon, 
and  fears,  in  spite  of  herself.  A  hero  to  the  backbone,  though 
born  in  some  little  village  of  Louisiana,  with  his  long,  fair 
hair  and  blue-gray  eyes,  handsome  as  a  man  of  his  size 
should  be,  though  not  formed  on  the  perfect  lines  which 
constitute  an  artist's  ideal.  His  mouth,  soft,  gentle,  and 
sensual,  is  too  heavily  formed  for  beauty,  though  it  is  in 
keeping  with  himself,  for  it  seems  to  promise  so  much  in  the 
way  of  individuality  ;  the  chin  is  firm  but  not  too  heavy  or 
coarse,  with  a  good-natured  dimple  in  it  which  is  one  of  the 
principle  charms  of  the  face.  He  is  much  older  than  his 
age  ;  many  who  have  lived  his  years  are  boys,  but  he  is  a 
man  in  every  sense  of  the  term.  How  he  can  have  absorbed 
so  much  life  as  he  has  is  a  mystery,  as  yet ;  but  judged,  even 
as  she  judges  him,  by  the  fierce  critical  light  of  the  greater 
world  which  she  knows  exoterically  and  esoterically  so  well, 
he  comes  unharmed  through  the  ordeal.  "  Si  jeunesse 
savait,  si  viellcsse  pouvait ! "  said  the  Sage.  Well,  his  is  a 
jeunesse  qui  salt  et  qui peut ! 

A  great  fire  of  joy  is  in  her  eyes,  for  she  had  honestly 
believed  that  no  power  of  man  could  bring  her  back  to  life 
and  love  in  the  world ,  and  all  this  shines  in  her  face  as  she 
answers  -him  once  more  :  "  Do  you  know  how  ill  I  am  ?  " 
For  she  would  not  take  advantage  of  the  impulse  of  a 
moment,  though  fraught  with  such  insane  happiness  and 
intoxication  as  this. 
4 


50  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  I  know,"  he  answers,  kissing  her  senses  away,  "  I  know  ; 
but  you  shall  live  again  and  your  veins  shall  throb  with  the 
pulses  of  my  love.  I  will  give  you  life  in  which  to  forget 
your  foolish  fancies." 

"Why  have  you  come  to  disturb  my  life  ?  "  she  says,  after 
a  pause.  "  I  know  how  much  older  I  am  than  you.  I  am 
not  strong  enough  to  love  you  as  I  might.  Don't  play  with 
me."  This,  almost  imploringly. 

"  What  is  age  to  us  who  have  only  just  begun  to  live  ? '' 
he  answers. 

And  so  she  resists  no  more,  but  lies  in  his  arms,  just  as 
he  had  lifted  her  up  and  laid  her  on  the  cushions  of  the 
divan  ;  her  lips  are  close  to  his,  and  then  she  knows  of  noth- 
ing save  of  that  wild  embrace,  is  conscious  of  nothing  save 
the  soft  touch  of  his  finely  moulded  hands.  At  last,  as  if  to 
wake  himself  from  some  exquisite  dream,  he  rises  to  his  feet 
and  looks  down  upon  her. 

******* 

At  parting,  whilst  he  holds  her  in  his  arms,  he  says, 
almost  malignantly : 

"Never  let  us  injure  one  another  by  word,  or  deed,  or 
thought ;  for  two  such  enemies  as  we  should  be,  this  world  is 
far  too  small." 

No  other  words,  no  protestation  of  devotion  could  have 
given  her  so  full  a  measure  of  joy  ;  for  a  savage  love  is  the 
only  one  possible  for  her,  gentle  though  all  her  life  has 
seemed  to  be.  She  stands  before  him,  looking  up  into  his 
face,  on  hers  a  wonder,  a  curiosity,  a  questioning  that  seems 
to  say,  "  Why  did  you  seek  me  ?  what  can  be  the  reason  ? 
How  have  I  won  you  ?  "  After  a  long  look  she  murmurs,  as 
her  hands  cling  to  his  arms  that  are  clasped  round  her 
waist  : 

"  I  think  you  are  right — there  is  no  middle  course  for  us." 

There  is  nothing  very  clever,  or  original,  or  significant  in 
the  few  words,  but  a  look  creeps  into  her  face  which  does 
not  fit  the  soft  features — it  is  the  expression  of  some  beauti- 
ful wild  animal,  fraught  with  all  the  jealous  intensity  of 


UNE  MAfTKEJSSE  PEA/ME.  5  I 

passion,  revealing — dimly,  though  indeed  revealing — a  cruel, 
wild  love  that  kills  rather  than  relinquishes  its  object. 

Fascinated,  both  of  them,  their  lips  meet  and  part  silently, 
and  leave  them  quivering — and  so  he  goes  out  into  the 
night  leaving  her  transfigured. 

She  looks  into  the  glass  critically,  searchingly  :  she  hurries 
away  an  instant  and  then,  returning,  looks  again.  The 
bronze-gold  wrapper  she  had  worn  has  fallen  off,  leaving  her 
swathed  in  a  gown  of  soft,  clinging  white  silk,  which  is  bound 
around  her  in  sinuous  folds — even  illness  has  been  power- 
less to  rob  her  of  the  supple  grace  that  she  inherits  from 
her  Greek  ancestors.  She  looks  at  the  reflection,  evidently 
satisfied  ;  then  a  doubt  grows  up  within  her  and  she  turns 
to  another  glass,  thinking  the  first  may  have  flattered  : — no, 
the  reflection  is  still  good  to  look  upon  ;  her  lips  are  crim- 
son with  excitement,  and  give  greater  beauty  to  her  dazzling, 
perfect  teeth  :  she  looks  fixedly,  without  conceit,  as  if  ap- 
praising to  its  exact  value  each  feature,  seeking  to  justify 
in  her  dreadfully  wise  mind  all  that  the  last  six  hours  have 
brought.  With  the  memory,  her  knees  give  away  beneath 
her  and  she  stumbles  into  the  cushions  of  the  divan,  and  as 
she  almost  unconsciously  continues  to  balance  the  pros  and 
cons,  the  last  remaining  spark  of  reason  dies  amid  the  ashes 
of  memory,  and,  with  a  big  sigh,  Mahmoure  di  Zulueta  sinks 
to  sleep. 

With  the  practiced  indiscretion  of  the  romancist  and  his- 
torian, I  have  betrayed  the  confidence  of  the  early  sun- 
beams, and  already  the  reader  has  assisted,  in  the  spirit,  at 
the  waking  of  Mahmoure.  Little  by  little  she  roused  her- 
self, and  began  the  indolent  and  luxurious  operation  of 
clothing  her  little,  fantastic  body,  whilst  she  sipped  her  coffee, 
and  at  intervals  embarked  on  the  arduous  undertaking  of 
crunching  an  atom  of  toast ;  for,  like  all  Oriental  women,  it 
was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  Mahmoure  could  be 
induced  to  feed  like  a  Christian — which  she  was  not  and  had 
no  intention  of  becoming.  She  preferred  to  spoil  her  appetite 
and  ruin  her  constitution  with  sweets  and  strange  groceries, 


52  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

which  later  called  forth  Paul's  dictum  that  "  Mahmoure'  lived 
in  a  state  of  chronic  hors  d'tzuvres,  physically,  mentally,  and 
morally  !  "  It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  before  she  was  what 
she  called  dressed,  and,  robed  or  rather  wrapped  in  cross- 
ing and  recrossing  folds  of  white  china  silk,  with  a  little 
Greek  jacket  of  gold  embroidery  on  a  burnt-sienna  ground, 
she  punched  the  cushions  of  the  divan  into  a  comfortable 
nest,  and  settled  herself  among  them  with  a  scrap  of  embroi- 
dery, the  last  novel  sent  her  from  Europe  by  its  illustrious 
author,  and  a  writing-pad  whereon  to  make  a  show  of  writ- 
ing letters  that  never  got  written. 

She  was  cuddled  up  thus,  diffusing  around  her  a  quaint 
fragrance  of  sandal-wood,  of  myrrh,  and  of  Tonquin,  when  a 
card  was  brought  her:  "  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral."  "Ask  him 
in  ?  Certainly  !  "  And  it  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of 
the  woman,  that,  instead  of  arranging  a  fold  here,  a  ribbon 
there,  and  giving  a  precautionary  touch  to  her  hair,  to  receive 
the  natural  enemy — man,  she  merely  stretched  herself  out  a 
little  more  comfortably  among  the  cushions,  and  held  up  her 
hand  to  be  kissed  by  Paul,  who  had  almost  to  kneel  on  the 
divan  by  her  side  for  the  purpose. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  said  she  ;  "  it  proves  at  any 
rate  that  it's  all  real.  I  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  I  hadn't 
been  sent  to  sleep  by  the  'family  friend,'  and  that  you  had 
both  left  me  to  a  pleasing,  but  wearing  kind  of  dream." 

"  No,"  replied  he,  "  it  was  all  exquisitely  real — and,  being 
so,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  never  felt  like  it  before — 
it's  all  new  to  me.  Suggest  something,  please." 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  act  on  my  suggestion." 

"  Certainly— if  it's  feasible." 

"  And  supposing  it  isn't  feasible  ?  " 

"  Well — I  should  try  ;  "  this  with  an  air  of  lazy  but  inter- 
ested curiosity. 

"  Let  us  marry  one  another  !  " 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  started  into  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, and  thus,  her  arms  clasped  around  her  knees,  she 


UNE  MAlTRESSE  FEMME.  53 

remained,  her  brown  eyes  wide  open  and  gazing  into  his 
with  an  expression  of  lively  amazement. 

"  You  suggest  to  marry  me — you  who  know  three  things 
that  would  '  make  the  heart  of  the  stoutest  quail,'  as  they 
say  in  inexpensive  fiction  ?  First,  my  age ;  second,  the 
whole  of  my  inconsequent  life  ;  and  third,  that  my  illness 
has  left  me  a  mere  shattered  wreck  of  womanhood." 

"  Certainly — and  those  three  things  I  meet  with  three  in- 
controvertible facts.  First,  a  woman  is  as  old  as  she  looks, 
and  you  look  about  my  age  ;  besides,  your  real  tale  of  years 
give  you  an  experience  that  makes  you  more  maddeningly 
fascinating  to  me  than  any  girl  between  seventeen  and  five- 
and-twenty  could  be.  Second,  your  '  inconsequent  '  life  is  at 
an  end,  for  I  shall  be  your  last  love,  just  as  you  are  my  first. 
Speaking  properly,  a  woman's  last  love  is  the  only  kind  of 
love  that  can  satisfy  the  first  love  of  a  man.  Besides,  your 
love  for  me  can  only  be  terminated  by  the  death  of  one  of 
us,  for  I  shall  love  you  till  I  die,  and  if  you  were  unfaithful 
to  me  I  should  kill  you  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
And  third,  true,  your  health  is  shattered,  therefore  it  is 
necessary  that  you  should  not  only  be  taken  care  of  as  only 
a  husband  can  take  care  of  you,  but  also  that,  should  I  die, 
you  should  inherit  what  little  property  I  have,  as  only  a 
wife  can  inherit.  I  might  almost  say  to  you,  in  fact,  as  M. 
Le  Comte  de  Noce'  said  to  Mlle.de  Pontivi,  lVou!ez  vous 
etre  ma.  veuve  ?  ' — will  you  be  my  widow  ? — for  my  life  is  full 
of  dangers,  and  I  might  die  any  moment." 

"  Paul,  you  overwhelm  me  !  A  man  of  the  world,  such  as 
you  are,  cannot  be  blind  to  the  fact  that  marriage  with 
Mahmoure  di  Zulueta  would  be  ruin  to  your  scheme  of 
existence,  which  depends,  as  you  yourself  have  told  me,  on 
your  social  position." 

"  Chere  amie,  your  words  are  like  those  of  a  printed  book 
with  the  leaves  in  it.  What  you  say — as  I  expected  you 
would  say — is  perfectly  true,  but  why  and  how,  you  can 
scarcely  guess.  Curl  yourself  up  among  your  cushions  ;  I 
am  going  to  expound  my  plan  with  a  long  story." 


54  THE  PKLVCRSS  DAPHNE. 

*'  Go  on,  mon  ami." 

"  I,  Paul  du  Peyral,  aged  twenty-eight,  descendant  of  a 
Franco-Spanish  alliance,  rejoicing,  as  few  of  us  Creoles  do, 
in  the  possession  of  a  certificate  of  legitimate  original 
birth  and  ancestry,  live,  move,  and  have  my  being  by  a 
caprice — the  caprice  of  a  cranky  old  Southern  gentleman 
whom  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  please  at  a  moment 
when  he  had  had  what  the  Irish  call  "  an  elegant  row  "  with 

O 

his  entire  family.  I  was  left  an  orphan  at  sixteen,  and, 
more  from  pity  than  from  anything  else,  was  adopted  as 
companion,  assistant,  secretary,  steward,  or  whatever  else 
you  like  to  call  it,  by  an  old  bachelor  who  lived  a  few  miles 
from  Baton  Rouge,  by  name  Casimir  Prdault,  and  who  led 
a  solitary,  woman-hating  life,  engrossed  in  the  studies  of  the 
indigenous  mosquito,  the  cosmopolitan  house-fly,  and  the 
naturalized  London  sparrow.  He  was  very  wealthy,  and 
the  premonitory  symptoms  of  his  demise  were  consequently 
watched  with  cheerful  solicitude  by  his  only  living  relations, 
the  Pre'aults  of  New  Orleans,  of  Louisville,  and  sundry  other 
cities  of  the  South.  Now,  this  old  gentleman's  nearest  liv- 
ing relative  was  a  cousin,  by  name  Victor  Preault,  whom  he 
cordially  hated,  and  for  whose  benefit  he  used  continually 
to  devise  irritating  and  ingenious  schemes  of  disappoint- 
ment. The  interest  which  I  educated  myself  to  take  in  the 
morals  of  the  mosquito,  the  haunts  of  the  house-fly,  and  the 
pathology  of  the  common  sparrow,  in  spite  of  my  more 
absorbing  interest  in  psychology,  suggested  to  him  a  scheme 
for  the  disinheriting  of  Victor  Preault,  which,  however,  was 
tempered  by  a  more  or  less  genuine  affection  for  his  cousin's 
only  daughter,  Daphne  Preault,  whom  he  adored  in  spite  of 
that  young  lady's  aversion  for  him,  an  aversion  which  ren- 
dered futile  a  cherished  scheme  of  his  for  the  marrying  of 
the  said  young  person  to  his  prot/ge,  Paul  du  Peyral.  He 
consequently  made  a  will,  the  ingenuity  of  which  has  always 
inspired  my  profoundest  respect.  He  made  a  disposition  of 
his  entire  property  to  trustees,  in  trust  to  pay  the  entire 
income  to  me,  on  certain  conditions  and  hampered  by  cer- 


UNE  MAlTRESSE  FEMME.  55 

tain  directions.  First,  I  was  directed  to  marry  Miss 
Daphne  Pre'ault,  whom  I  had  never  seen.  If  she  formally 
refused  to  marry  me,  the  said  income  was  directed  to  be 
paid  to  me,  so  that  I  might  be  in  a  position  to  prosecute  his 
and  my  hobbies  in  elegant  independence — to  wit,  psychol- 
ogy, and  the  studies  of  the  mosquito,  the  house-fly,  and  the 
sparrow.  But  the  will  further  contained  a  proviso  that, 
should  I  ever  marry  anyone  other  than  the  young  lady 
aforesaid,  the  said  income  was  to 'be  paid  thenceforward  to 
Miss  Pre'ault ;  and  in  the  event  of  my  death  the  same  thing 
was  to  take  place,  she  being  meanwhile  invested  with  a 
power  to  dispose  of  her  reversionary  interest  in  the  estate, 
by  will,  in  case  of  her  pre-deceasing  me.  Now,  I  am  preju- 
diced against,  rather  than  in  favour  of,  this  young  woman, 
and  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  I  have  never  married,  in  spite 
of  the  conspiracies  of  designing  mammas,  ignorant  of  the 
provisions  of  my  benefactor's  will.  The  other  reason  is, 
that  until  I  saw  you  I  never  loved  any  woman  sufficiently  to 
make  her  my  wife — you  alone  have  the  mentality,  apart  from 
your  exquisite  personality,  which  tempts  me  to  throw  up 
everything  ;  but  I  have  thought  of  a  plan  that  obviates  this 
latter  very  painful  necessity,  though  I  have,  by  this  time, 
money  enough  of  my  own  to  render  me  mildly  independent. 
My  plan  is  this.  I  am  naturally  very  carefully  watched,  both 
by  my  trustees,  and  on  behalf  of  Miss  Pre'ault,  who  is,  I  believe, 
in  Europe  somewhere,  having  gone  thither  on  the  death  of 
her  father  some  years  ago.  We  must  elude  their  vigilance,  and 
it  may  be  done  in  this  way :  we  will  go  away  somewhere  and 
be  married  very  quietly,  and  then  we  can  return  here  and  go 
on  as  we  should  go  on  anyhow,  only  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  should  they  ever  guess  the  completeness  of  our  con- 
nection (which  is  unnecessary,  if  we  are  careful),  you  will 
be  my  mistress,  whilst  between  ourselves  you  will  be  my 
wife,  and  will  assert  your  position  after  my  death,  in  respect 
of  my  separate  personal  estate.  I  ask  this  because  I  love 
and  admire  you — two  very  different  things,  and  seldom 
concomitant — from  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  and  I  verily 


$6  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

believe  that  the  knowledge  that  you  are  my  wife  will  have 
an  excellent  effect  on  both  of  us.  Only,  before  the  world  I 
shall  be  still  Paul  du  Peyral  the  scientist,  and  what  is  of  far 
greater  interest  to  the  world — the  bachelor;  whilst  you  will 
continue  to  reign  in  the  Bohemia  that  is  so  dear  to  you,  as 
Mahmoure  di  Zulueta.  Say,  then,  darling,  will  you  take  this 
new  lease  of  life  from  me  ?  " 

The  womam,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  had  buried 
her  head  in  the  cushions.  She  kept  her  face  thus  hidden 
for  a  few  minutes,  during  which  neither  of  them  spoke,  then, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his,  she  encircled  his  neck  with  her  arms 
— he  had  sunk  among  the  cushions  beside  her — and  drew 
his  head  down  to  hers,  whispering : 

"  Paul,  Paul,  my  darling,  are  you  sure  you  will  not  regret 
this  ? " 

"  Never,  sweetheart." 

"  But  this  other  woman — it  is  not  fair  to  her." 

"  Ah — bah  !  she  is  nothing  to  me,  and  you  are  everything. 
Sooner  or  later  this  property  must  be  hers ;  at  present  she 
is  ignorant  of  all ;  let  her  continue  so.  I  wrote  immediately 
I  came  into  the  property  and  offered  myself  to  her;  she 
refused  me  insultingly,  and  her  representatives  have  never 
ceased  trying  to  harass  me  ;  fortunately,  however,  though  an 
amateur,  the  old  gentleman  was  too  good  a  lawyer.  ]f  you 
love  me,  do  not  let  any  thought  of  these  horrible  people 
interfere  with  our  happiness.  Tell  me,  is  it  'yes'  or 
' no  '  ?  " 

The  "  Yes  "  was  felt  rather  than  heard  ;  and  radiant  with 
hopes,  and  looking  younger  than  ever  in  her  new-found  hap- 
piness, Mahmoure  di  Zulueta  lay  almost  unconscious  in  her 
lover's  arms. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"L'AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME." 

MANY  are  the  pros  and  cons  of  London  weather.  It  has 
been  said  of  us  Londoners,  and  I  fear  with  truth,  that  we  have 
the  most  horrible  weather  in  the  world,  especially  in  autumn 
and  winter  ;  but  we  can  boast  with  equal  truth  (hat  nowhere 
else  in  the  world  do  we  find  an  in-door  comfortableness  that 
renders  even  a  foggy  day  delightful,  as  we  do  in  London — 
nowhere  else  can  one  be  so  unspeakably  cosy  as  in  a  Lon- 
don snuggery  whilst  the  elements  practise  for  another  Del- 
uge, or  the  world  outside  grows  while  and  soft  with  snow. 
Well,  the  day  after  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  party  was  "  a  foggy 
day  " — and  by  this  I  mean  a  day  as  foggy  as  London  knows 
how  to  make  it  when  she  gives  her  mind  to  the  subject — a 
day  that  reminded  one  of  the  pictures  of  London  by  Leech 
in  the  early  numbers  of  Punch,  wherein  link-boys  flit  like  the 
familiar  demons  of  the  fog. 

It  was  useless  for  the  Princess  Daphne  to  attempt  to  work, 
for  the  fog  lay  on  the  glass  of  the  skylight  in  her  studio 
roof  like  a  curtain  ;  so  she  drew  an  arm-chair  close  up  to 
the  fire,  lit  the  gas,  and  took  up  a  book — one  of  those  cynical 
modern  romances  of  immoral  psychology  which  combine  the 
somniferousness  of  the  old-fashioned  novel  with  the  innocu- 
ousness  of  the  nursery-rhyme.  The  warm  red  and  brown 
lights  flashed  by  the  fire  amid  the  encircling  gloom,  the  gas- 
jet  with  its  shade,  and  the  girl's  brown  dress  made  a  charm- 
ing picture  in  the  stillness  of  the  fog  ;  but  the  Princess  was 
not  sorry  to  have  it  disturbed  by  a  ring  at  the  bell,  closely 
followed  by  the  appearance  of  Eric  Trevanion.  He  also 
had  been  driven  by  the  "  murk "  from  his  soul-elevating 

57 


5  8  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

easel,  and  his  thoughts  had  brought  him  to  the  door  of  the 
Princess  Daphne's  cottage. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Trevanion,"  said  she,  as  she  saw  who  it  was  : 
"  to  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honour  ? " 

"  To  the  weather,  Princess,  which  gave  me  an  excuse  I 
was  ardently  desiring." 

"  I'm  sure  you  require  no  excuse  to  call  on  me  ;  if  you're 
let  in,  it  means  that  I  am  glad  to  see  you — or  anybody.  If 
I'm  busy  I  '  sport  my  oak  '  !  To-day  I  am  honestly  dull, 
trying  to  read  this  miserable  production.  I've  formulated  an 
axiom  this  morning,  which  is  as  follows  :  '  Modern  literature  is 
the  apotheosis  of  truism.'  Formerly  everything  was  paradox  ; 
a  writer  thought  he  had  only  to  state  the  glaringly  improbable 
or  contradictory,  to  catch  the  popular  taste :  to-day  he  says 
sapiently,  'To  put  on  one's  hat  wrong  side  foremost  is  very 
uncomfortable ; '  and  instead  of  saying,  '  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
we  know  that  ! '  his  readers  hold  up  their  hands  and  cry, 
'Dear  me,  how  true!  what  an  observer  he  is!  why,  we've 
often  noticed  that  ourselves  ! '  Yes,  modern  literature  is  the 
apotheosis  of  truism,  and  the  criterion  of  its  excellence  is 
piracy  in  the  United  States.  If  a  book  is  clever  enough  to 
say  nothing  that  we  don't  know  already,  it  is  clever  enough 
to  be  stolen  in  America.  Such  is  fame  !  " 

And  the  Princess  laughed  a  little,  silvery  laugh,  which 
stopped  short  as  she  saw  the  smile  die  away  on  the  face  of 
Eric  Trevanion. 

"  Why,  Sir  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Visage,"  said  she,  "  what 
ill  news  shortens  the  smile  which  I  expected  as  homage  to 
my  tirade  against  the  novelist  of  to-day  ?  " 

"No  ill  news,  Princess;  only  I'm  puzzled.  I  can't  make 
you  out ;  you're  so  brilliant,  and  clever,  and — all  thai,  you 
know — and  you're  so  absolutely  by  yourself  in  the  world,  I 
can't  account  for  you  ;  you're  a  kind  of  Sphinx  to  us  all,  and 
yet  you  talk  more  freely  about  yourself  than  anyone  I  have 
ever  known.  But  'it's  never  to  the  point.  You  know  what  I 
mean,  though  I  can't  say  it,"  concluded  he,  helplessly. 

"Well,  are  you  another  Davus,  or  will  you  be  CEdipus?" 


"L?  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  59 

"  I  don't  know  who  Davis  is,  unless  he's  the  man  who 
bought  that  academy  picture  of  yours,  and  I  never  heard  of 
the  other  gentleman,"  replied  Eric,  mendaciously,  so  as  to 
hear  Miss  Preault's  definition,  which  was  bound  to  be  inter- 
esting if  not  funny. 

"Well,  the  Sphinx,  you  know,  was  a  bewildering  lady  with 
a  taste  for  cannibalism  and  conundrums." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that." 

"  Davus  was  the  journalist  of  the  time,  the  regret  -of  whose 
life  was  that  he  was  not  (Edipus,  who  was  the  contemporary 
Irving  Bishop,  and  read  the  lady's  thoughts." 

"  And  what  good  did  it  do  him  ?  " 

"  No  good ;  he  would  have  married  the  Sphinx,  or  what 
was  human  of  her,  and  killed  what  was  animal  and  bad,  and 
no  doubt,  like  many  a  modern  husband,  would  have  been 
rather  sorry  for  himself.  As  it  is,  I  believe  he  married  his 
mamma." 

"But  you  are  not  the  Sphinx  really." 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I  am  half-human  and  half-animal,"  returned 
the  girl,  gazing  abstractedly  into  the  fire.  "There  is  a  great 
deal  in  me  that  is  terribly  human,  and  there's  an  underneath 
side  to  my  character  which  is  terribly  savage.  I  don't  know 
which  side  troubles  me  most;  and  I  don't  know  whether 
they  will  ever  be  separated  from  one  another,  and  if  they 
are,  which  will  remain  incarnate  in  Daphne  Preault,  and 
which  will  fly  off  into  space  ;  "  she  raised  her  eyes  as  she 
finished,  and  found  Trevanion  leaning  forward  in  his  chair, 
his  wide-stricken  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  an  expression  that 
fancy  had  often  placed  there  for  her  before,  but  intensified, 
feverish,  yearning. 

"  Princess  !  Daphne — you  gave  me  my  choice  a  minute 
ago  whether  to  be  Davus  or  the  other  man — let  me  be  the 
other  man — let  me  solve  the  riddle  of  your  life  for  you. 
Surely  you  have  seen  how  I  worship  you.  I  never  thought 
I  should  dare  to  tell  you  of  it,  but  I  can't  help  it — I  love 
you.  "  He  had  taken  one  of  her  hands  in  his  and  was 
covering  it  with  kisses;  she  did  not  try  to  take  it  away,  but 


60  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

merely  looked  down  with  a  gaze  of  infinite  pity  at  him  as 
she  replied : 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it,  but  it  isn't  to  be.  I  would  love  you  in 
return  if  I  dared ;  but  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  trust  myself  to 
love  anyone  :  sooner  or  later  you  would  discover  all  my  bad- 
ness and  weakness,  and  then  it  would  be  all  over.  The  un- 
known is  always  a  goal  for  one's  ambition  ;  I  am  a  goal  for 
yours,  which  is,  I  fear,  more  than  half  curiosity.  So  long  as 
you  see  me  from  a  distance  you  wonder  and  do  not  ques- 
tion ;  touch  me,  and  you  would  soon  criticise ;  and  when  we 
criticise  we  soon  despise.  Eric,  my  dear  friend,  I  like  you 
far  too  well  ever  to  show  you  that  weak  under  side  of  my 
nature.  Be  a  companion,  a  friend  to  me,  if  you  will, — you 
are  the  only  man  who  ever  had  the  chance  to  be, — but  a 
lover — never  !  Come,  mon  ami,  we  are  merry  Bohemians ; 
don't  let's  trouble  our  life  with  the  silly  emotions  of  the 
outer  world." 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  laying  one  arm  upon  the 
mantel-piece,  was  looking  into  the  fire,  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand.  Her  words  troubled  him ;  troubled  him 
with  a  sensation  that  was  neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  but 
confusion  of  thought.  He  brought  her  the  armor  of  gold, 
but  she  refused  it,  almost  inviting  his  offer  of  the  armor  of 
brass  :  she  had  offered  him  a  kind  of  emotional  Platonism, 
that  made  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope,  but  refused  his 
avowed  love  on  the  one  plea  that  flatters  a  man  whilst  he 
will  not  accept  it — her  own  unworthiness. 

"  But  I  want  something  more,  "  he  said  ;  "  I  want  your 
love." 

"  No,  boy,  "  she  replied ;  "  come  to  me  for  sympathy,  for 
friendship,  for  assistance,  for  confession  ;  but  love — real 
love — only  comes  to  a  man  once.  It  has  come  to  you,  but 
you  don't  see  it ;  some  clay  you  will,  and  then  you'll  be  very 
grateful  to  Daphne  Preault  for  not  engaging  your  heart, 
your  soul,  but  only  your  brain." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  know  a  girl  who  loves  you  with  her  whole 


"  L 'AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  6 1 

heart.  Ah !  no  ;  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  who  it  is,  if  you 
can't  see  for  yourself  :  but  when  you  are  married  you  shall 
come  here  with  your  wife,  and  Daphne  Pre'ault  will  continue 
in  the  sunshine  of  your  life  the  friendship  that  she  inaugu- 
rated with  you  in  a  London  fog.  Now  leave  me  alone,  dear 
boy,  and  come  here  to  tea  with  me  to-morrow — you  will 
have  thought  it  over  by  then,  and  realized  that  it  was  for  the 
best  that  I  advised  you.  " 

So  saying  she  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  with  her 
little  imperial  gesture  dismissed  him.  He  stood  looking  at 
her  humbly,  helplessly,  for  a  moment,  and  then — he  was 
gone. 

The  Princess  remained  in  the  house  just  long  enough  to 
wrap  herself  in  a  cloak  and  put  on  a  hat,  and  then  started 
forth  to  call  at  the  Hawleigh's.  Here  also  she  found  work 
at  the  easel  suspended,  but  Gabriel  and  Maye  were  lost  in  a 
cloud  of  harmony  that  seemed  to  make  the  very  fog  that  had 
filtered  into  the  studio  vibrate  with  its  passion.  Daphne 
Preault  did  not  disturb  the  musicians,  but  stood  at  the  entry 
to  the  studio  till  the  music  should  have  ceased.  When  this 
moment  arrived,  Gabriel,  violin  in  hand,  flung  himself  onto 
the  lounge,  whilst  Maye  merely  bent  over  the  keys  and 
seemed  lost  in  reverie.  It  was  Gabriel,  in  turning  over  on 
the  couch,  who  first  saw  the  magnificent  figure  standing  in 
the  flickering  light,  and  springing  to  his  feet,  exclaimed, — 

"Princess  /" 

At  the  word,  Maye  turned  also  and  greeted  the  visitor,  and 
then  they  all  drew  chairs  to  the  fire  and  began  to  talk  with 
daring  originality  about  the  weather. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me  here,"  began  Miss 
Pre'ault,  when  this  subject  had  been  exhausted.  "  When 
you  can't  work  you  can  play —  sounds  like  a  truism,  doesn't 
it  ?  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  Now  /simply  have  to  read 
or  receive  visits  until  I  get  tired  of  both,  and  seek  congenial 
society  here.  Which  do  you  prefer,  Gabriel,  the  fiddle  or 
the  easel  ? " 

"  Well,  really  I  hardly  know,  "   replied  he  ;  "  sometimes  I 


62  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

wish  I'd  been  brought  up  a  professional  musician  instead  of 
a  painter,  and  at  others  I  wouldn't  give  up  painting  if  the 
triumvirate  of  ghosts  of  Stradivarius,  Tourte,  and  Paganini 
came  down  and  implored  me  to  become  a  violinist  by  trade." 

"  And  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  The  Trinity  of  the  Fiddler's  worship,  the  Princes  of 
Fiddle-making,  Bow-making,  and  Fiddle-playing.  I  invoke 
their  names  every  time  I  take  up  my  violin,  and  beg  their 
shades  to  inspire  me.  Ah  !  I  should  never  be  an  artist  on 
the  instrument ;  I  should  always  remain  a  virtuoso."  . 

"  And  what  is  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  the  difference  between  the  active  and  the  pas- 
sive :  the  artist  is  master  of  his  violin,  the  virtuoso  is  its  slave. 
Joachim,  Viardot,  Vieuxtemps  were  and  are  artists  ;  Sarasate, 
Wilhelmj,  Paganini,  were  and  are  virtuosi.  Don't  you  see 
the  difference  ?  The  artist  can  read  at  sight  the  most  difficult 
music,  and  plays  by  note ;  the  virtuoso  plays  more,  as  a 
rule,  by  ear,  than  otherwise.  The  artist  strives  after  per- 
fection of  technique  for  the  interpretation  of  the  works  of 
the  great  composers  for  the  instrument ;  the  virtuoso,  on  the 
other  hand,  aims  at  brillant  execution  for  the  interpretation 
of  his  own  moods,  his  own  thoughts,  his  own  fantasies. 
That's  what  I  do ;  and  there  are  days  when  I  wish  I  had 
given  my  whole  time  to  it.  " 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  "  remarked  Daphne,  "  that,  just  as  you 
are  a  virtuoso  with  your  bow,  Eric  Trevanion  is  a  virtuoso 
with  the  brush.  Certainly  he  doesn't  aim  at  perfection  of 
technique,  and  certainly  he  tries  to  interpret  his  own  moods, 
thoughts,  and  fantasies — and  does  so  to  his  own  satisfaction 
doubtless  !  " 

"  Well,  yes  ;  I  think  we  may  call  Eric  a  virtuoso  of  the 
camel-hair ;  his  impressions  are  hardly  what  one  would  call 
artistic — are  they  ?  " 

"  And  what  do  you  think  about  it,  Maye  ?  "  queried  the 
Princess. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  never  thought  of  Eric  as  an  artist.     I 


"I?  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEMEr  63 

look  upon  his  profession  as  a  colossal  joke,  and  an  excuse 
for  keeping  untidy,  artistic  rooms.  " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  as  a  man  ?  " 

"  Good  gracious,  Daphne,  what  an  indiscreet  question  ! 
Why,  I  think  him  a  very  worthy  person,  very  bright  and 
kind  and  all  that ;  but  I  never  made  a  study  of  him.  Why 
ask  me?"  The  girl  did  her  utmost  to  make  her  light  reply 
as  meaningless  and  casual  in  tone  as  possible ;  but  the  flush 
that  came  over  her  face  as  she  answered  told  the  Princess  the 
story  she  wanted  to  know. 

"  I  wonder  he  has  never  married,  "  she  went  on,  vivisec- 
tionally. 

"  On  the  contrary,  "  broke  in  Gabriel,  "  the  wonder  to  me 
would  be  if  any  girl  would  ever  be  bold  enough  to  take  him, 
and  be  painted  continually  as  a  '  Note  in  Black  and  White,' 
'A  Crochet  in  White  Worsted,'  'A  Quaver  in  B  Minor,' 
or  something  eccentric  of  that  sort." 

"  I  think,"  returned  Miss  Pre'ault,  abstractedly,  "  that  he'd 
make  some  girl  a  perfect  husband.  He'd  be  so  tender,  and 
gallant,  and  chivalrous,  and  delicate." 

Maye  looked  at  her  gratefully,  and  would  have  spoken, 
only  Gabriel  cut  in,  remarking  : 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  think  that,  because  he's  madly  in  love 
with  you. " 

"  Of  course  he  is — so  are  you,"  replied  the  girl,  without 
turning  a  hair. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  but  I'm  not  so  badly  bitten  as  Eric ;  I'm 
only  at  the  stage  of  telling  you  so  whenever  I  have  a  chance; 
he's  got  to  the  point  of  thinking  it  continually." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Gabriel,"  replied  the  Princess, 
sharply. 

"  I  am  not  talking  nonsense  :  and  look  here  ;  I  wish  you'd 
marry  him  and  take  him  back  to  Cornwall  or  Dartmoor  or 
wherever  it  is ;  he's  ruining  me — here  am  /  painting  night- 
mare pictures  now." 

"  Oh  !  where  ?     Show  me," 


64  THE  PRIA'CESS  DAPiINE. 

"  Under  the  seal  of  profoundest  secrecy,  I'll  show  you  the 
great  work  for  the  next  Academy." 

So  saying,  Gabriel  uncovered  the  canvas  on  which  he  had 
been  at  work.  It  represented  a  London  street,  in  a  dense 
fog.  In  the  foreground,  lighted  by  a  yellow  blotch  of  street 
lamp,  a  blind  itinerant  fiddler  was  playing,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  state  of  the  atmosphere.  A  man  and  a 
girl  were  passing,  wrapped  up  snugly,  and  laughing  at  one 
another.  Under  cover  of  the  fog  they  had  twined  their 
fingers  together  as  the  girl  held  the  man's  arm  tightly  in 
hers ;  whilst  the  blind  fiddler  played  on,  in  apparent  igno- 
rance of  all.  The  painting  was  unfinished,  hardly,  indeed, 
more  than  roughed  in,  but  the  composition  of  the  oblique 
vista  of  street  was  perfect,  the  balance  of  the  figures  was 
masterly,  and  the  whole  thing  was  toned  in  a  manner  which 
showed  high  artistic  skill. 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Daphne  Preault,  gravely,  "  this 
is  really  a  great  work  if  you  finish  it  as  you've  begun.  What 
shall  you  call  it  ?  " 

"  '  Sunshine  in  the  Fog, '  I  think,  or  perhaps,  '  It's  an  ill 
wind  blows  nobody  any  good.'  You  see,  I  want  to  convey 
the  idea  that  the  blind  fiddler  is  unconscious  of  the  fog  as 
well  as  of  the  happiness  of  the  young  couple  flirting  under 
his  blind  old  eyes  and  under  cover  of  the  darkness.  Jt 
shows  that  it  might  be  an  advantage  to  be  sightless  some- 
times— you  see,  to  him  it's  apparently  an  ordinary  day,  for 
the  sunshine  is  in  his  soul  as  he  hears  the  two  go  laughing 
by." 

"  Gabriel,"  said  Daphne,  "  this  will  be  a  great  picture — 
mark  my  words." 

"Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  the  boy;  "  it's  time  my  undoubted 
talents  were  recognized  by  the  Hanging  Committee  and  the 
art-dealers.  If  this  goes  well,  it  will  make  a  rent  in  the 
cloud,  through  which  I  may  be  enabled  to  shove  some  of  my 
lesser  masterpieces — known  to  the  vulgar  as  pot-boilers." 

"Well — a  thousand  congratulations  !  But  I  must  go  back 
to  work,  for  the  sky's  clearing  a  little." 


"  U  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  65 

And  with  this  she  left  them.  In  the  drawing-room  she 
found  Mrs.  Hawleigh. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  boy's  picture,  Daphne? "  said 
she. 

"  I  think  it  is  going  to  be  very  great.  What  accounts  for 
his  sudden  stride  ? " 

"  Can't  you  guess,  dear  ?  " 

"  Ah  !     And  does  she  care  for  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Gratitude  would  make  her  do  so,  but  I 
don't  think  it  is  necessary.  He  has  worked  hard  enough  for 
her,  poor  boy !  I  hope  nothing  will  happen  to  disappoint 
him ;  it  would  be  his  death-blow,  I  think." 

"  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  forgive  me,  but  has  it  never  occurred  to 
you  that  she  might  care  for  anyone  else  ? — Eric  Trevanion, 
for  instance  ? " 

"  My  dear,  I  have  feared  so  sometimes,  but  when  I  see 
Eric  with  you,  I  feel  easier  about  it.  You  know  he  adores 
you,  I  suppose.  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  has  told  you  so— no  doubt  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  care  for  him? — pardon  me  for  asking,  bu 
I'm  so  anxious  on  Gabriel's  account;  do  you  care  for  Ei;> 
Trevanion  ? " 

"  Yes  " — this  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  And  have  you  told  him  so  ? " 

"  No,  I  have  not  told  him  so." 

"  Oh  !  why  not,  dear  ?  Think  a  moment — if  you  love  Eric 
and  would  tell  him  so  when  he  asks  you,  how  happy  we  a1 
should  be — you — he — I — and  those  children  in  there." 

"That  boy,  you  mean,  Mrs.  Hawleigh  ?  " 

"  And  the  girl  too,  dear ;  she  knows  Eric  doesn't  care 
about  her,  and  if  she  knew  that  you  returned  his  affection, 
she  would  give  her  whole  heart  undivided  to  Gabriel,  and 
uninfluenced  by  that  terrible  thing,  gratitude." 

"  I  hardly  know  myself  enough,  Mrs.  Hawleigh.  Some- 
times I  am  afraid  when  I  think  of  marriage.  There  are  two 


66  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHA'E.      . 

sides  to  my  nature,  one  human  and  the  other  savage" — she 
was  unconsciously  drifting  back  to  what  she  had  told  Tre- 
vanion — "  and  I  know  that  marriage  would  kill  the  one  and 
develop  the  other,  and  unless  the  man  were  a  great,  strong 
creature,  I  am  terribly  afraid  that  the  human,  womanly  side 
of  me  would  disappear.  It's  the  way  with  all  of  us  South- 
ern American  women  ;  we  can  rule  others,  but  require  to  be 
ruled  ourselves ;  and  I  doubt  if  Eric  Trevanion  has  it  in  his 
power  to  rule  me,  to  keep  me  in  his  power  when  he  gets  to 
know  all  about  the  real  Daphne  Preault,  with  whom  the 
Daphne  Preault  you  know  is  hardly  on  speaking  terms  her- 
self!" 

"  Oh  !  you  do  yourself  injustice.  All  girls  do  when  they 
are  in  love.  Go  and  think  it  over,  dear  ;  I  am  sure  you  will 
see  that  what  I  say  is  for  the  best." 

"  Very  well— I'll  think  it  over." 

"That's  right — and  remember  that  by  making  yourself 
and  Eric  happy,  you  are  giving  a  new  life  to  Gabriel  and 
Maye,  a  new  encouragement  to  him  in  his  work,  a  new  bul- 
wark of  defence  to  Maye,  against  the  whims  of  her  silly  little 
heart." 

The  two  women  kissed  one  another,  and  the  Princess 
Daphne  walked  back  to  her  cottage. 

It  was  situated  at  the  other  end  of  Holland  Street,  and 
was  one  of  the  little  houses  with  a  patch  of  garden  in  front 
of  it  to  which  I  have  alluded,  in  describing  the  street. 
When  her  father,  Victor  Preault  of  Baton  Rouge,  died,  leav- 
ing her  an  income  which,  computed  in  American  dollars, 
was  statable  in  four  figures,  of  which  the  first  was  only  one 
remove  from  an  unit,  Daphne,  alone  in  the  world,  strongly 
inclined  to  art,  and  averse  to  governess-ship,  had  struck  her 
camp,  and  migrated  direct  to  Holland  Street,  where  her  in- 
come warranted  her  in  furnishing  the  little  semi-detachment 
in  which  the  scene  I  have  described  between  her  and  Eric 
had  taken  place. 

Her  originality  of  invention  and  daring  touch  had  quickly 
assured  her  artistic  success,  and  her  personality  had  gradu- 


"U  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  6j 

ally  made  for  her  a  throne  from  which  she  ruled  the  colony 
with  a  beneficent  and  almost  motherly  sway.  A  better 
friend  "  the  boys  "  had  never  had,  and  rumour  chaunted  a 
variegated  though  monotonous  Iliad — paradoxical  though  it 
may  seem,  written  down — of  the  way  in  which  everyone  had 
been  obliged  to  go  through  the  tortures  of  unrequited  affec- 
tion and  refusal,  before  settling  down  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Princess's  adoring  subjects.  The  little  house  was  charm- 
ingly furnished,  and  the  studio  into  which  the  goddess  of 
the  place  now  stepped  was  characteristic  of  its  denizen  as 
only  a  studio  can  become.  It  was  very  large,  and  its  gen- 
eral appearance  reminded  one  more  of  a  Roman  atelier  than 
anything  else  :  its  solid  furniture  consisted  of  a  lounge 
covered  with  an  enormous  bear-skin,  a  rosewood  writing- 
table,  a  miniature  grand  piano  by  Chickering,  and  a  renais- 
sance cabinet  filled  with  a  collection  of  the  silver,  ivory, 
and  porcelain  toys  of  the  eighteenth  and  preceding  cent- 
uries. Daphne  Preault  painted,  as  regards  touch  and  sub- 
ject, with  the  weird  independence  of  the  modern  French 
school ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  into  her  work,  which  had 
the  minutia  and  detail  of  Meissonier,  combined  with  the 
sensuous  fantasy  of  Vedder  and  Blake,  she  flung  without 
reserve  the  infinite  shades  of  her  complicated  personality. 
One  of  her  finest  works — which  she  refused  to  sell — hung 
over  the  high  oaken  mantel-shelf ;  it  represented  Gabriel 
Hawleigh  in  his  silk  working  shirt  of  morning,  and  "autres 
chases"  oi  afternoon,  his  collar  lying  open,  his  feet  thrust 
into  morocco  slippers,  reclining  on  the  bear-skin  of  the 
lounge,  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm.  Evidently  he  had  got 
up  in  the  middle  of  his  work,  seized  by  some  musical  whim 
or  other,  and,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  performance,  had  flung 
himself  exhausted  onto  the  fur ;  the  Princess  had  insisted  on 
painting  him  thus,  and  called  it  after  Tourguenieff's  marve- 
lous story,  "  Le  Chant  d' Amour  Triomphant."  It  was  an  ad- 
mirable specimen  of  her  skill,  and  a  great  favorite  among 
"  the  boys.  " 

To-day,  however,  she    did   not  paint,  but  lay  till  evening 


68  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

almost  motionless  on  the  bear-skin,  "  not  at  home  "  to  any- 
one, and  revolving  in  her  mind  the  events  and  conversations 
of  the  morning.  A  black  woman — a  negro  servant  who  had 
accompanied  her  across  the  ocean  four  years  before,  brought 
her  tea  at  five  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  seven  she  went  forth  to 
dine  in  Queen's  Gale,  returning  to  bed  and  to  sleep  soundly 
till  the  sunrise  woke  her  next  morning. 

What  the  result  of  the  previous  day's  cogitations  had  been 
not  even  the  practised  indiscretion  of  the  novelist  is  entitled 
to  impart  to  his  readers.  It  is  enough  for  them  to  know  that, 
to-day  being  bright,  she  worked  hard  at  her  Academy  picture 
until  Clytie,  the  darkie  woman,  bringing  in  the  tea-tray  at  five 
o'clock,  announced  : 

"  Mr.  Trevanion." 

Daphne  Preault  rose,  and  extending  her  hand,  said : 

"  Bon  chevalier !  sit  down  and  drink  tea  and  eat  things, 
and  then  I'll  tell  you  a  programme  I've  made  out  for  our 
amusement  this  evening,  if  you're  disengaged." 

"  I'm  always  disengaged  for  you,  Princess." 

"  Very  good !  that's  as  it  should  be.  You  must  go  away 
at  six,  and  come  back  at  half-past  seven  ;  I've  got  two  stalls 
for  the  Parthenon,  and  want  you  to  take  me  to  see  the  new 
play.  Vi place  cosi  ?  Does  my  plan  suit  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Trevanion ;  and  they  chatted  easily 
and  merrily  on  different  subjects,  avoiding  the  one  which 
was  uppermost  in  their  minds,  until  the  stated  hour,  when  the 
young  man,  with  a  joyful  "  An  rwoir"  left  the  girl  to  her 
important  meditations,  her  more  important  dinner,  and  her 
most  important  toilette. 

At  half-past  seven  he  was  at  the  door  with  a  hansom ;  and 
Eric  Trevanion  and  Daphne  Preault  were  bowled  along  in 
what  Lord  Beaconsfield,  plagiarizing  from  Balzac,  called 
"  the  gondola  of  the  London  streets,"  past  Kensington  and 
Knightsbridge,  and  down  Piccadilly  to  the  doors  of  the 
Theatre  Royal  Parthenon. 

People  may  say  what  they  like  to  the  pyschological  con- 
trary, but  there  is  certainly  something  deliciously  "  intime  " 


"  D  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME:*  69 

in  the  fact  of  driving  alone  with  a  woman,  whether  it  be  in 
the  family  coach,  the  discreet  coup/,  or  the  ordinary  hansom. 
We  are  told  that  when  the  American  young  man  "goes 
courting,"  he  lavishes  his  substance  on  innumerable  buggy 
rides  with  his  young  woman.  I  have  passed  much  of  my 
life  in  what  Mr.  Carnegie  has  called  the  "Triumphant 
Democracy,"  and  have  not  observed  this  to  be  the  case  ; 
but  there  is  no  denying  the  fact,  that  when,  in  the  depth  of 
the  transatlantic  winter,  the  snow  is  packed  in  a  polished 
layer  upon  the  face  of  the  world,  the  transatlantic  young 
man  and  the  transatlantic  young  woman  do  eagerly 
patronize  the  sleigh  known  as  a  "cutter,"  wherein  the 
pair  sit  very  close  together  indeed,  and  the  young  man 
drives;  or  better  still,  the  roomier  form  of  sleigh  in  which, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  they  "snuggle" 
beneath  the  buffalo-robes,  and  the  young  man  prevents  the 
young  woman  from  falling  out  when  they  turn  sharp  corners. 
The  spring  is  consequently  the  season  of  love  and  marriage 
in  America — as  is,  I  believe,  the  case  elsewhere,  according  to 
the  poet ;  and  the  Englishman  who  said  he  preferred — as 
being  less  dangerous — sitting  in  a  draught  in  a  rocking-chair, 
with  his  feet  in  a  tub  of  ice-water,  jangling  a  bell,  to  the 
national  winter  pastime,  must  have  experienced  the  joys  of 
sleighing  with  a  well-meaning,  but  male,  companion.  In 
Canada  they  toboggan,  and  this  is  a  still  more  ingenious  in- 
vention (  or  rather  collaboration  )  of  Eros  and  Hymen  ;  and 
these  things  have  their  efficient  counterparts  in  England,  no 
matter  what  may  be  the  vehicle  that  enforces  an  intimate 
physical  propinquity. 

Love  is  to  a  great  extent  a  meteorological  phenomenon, 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  largely  a  matter  of  atmosphere.  Who  has 
not  experienced,  on  entering  a  woman's  boudoir,  the  sensa- 
tion that  the  whole  atmosphere  is  deliriously  saturated  with 
her  physical  as  well  as  mental  personality  ?  To  a  much  greater 
extent  is  this  noticeable  in  a  brougham  or  coupe,  where  the 
area  is  even  more  circumscribed.  How  keen  an  observer 
have  we  considered  to  be  the  French  author  who  describes 


7O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

the  sensations  of  an  amorous  swain  on  finding  himself  reclin- 
ing in  a  box  upon  wheels,  practically  enveloped  in  the  dra- 
peries of  his  inamorata !  Such  seances  are  often,  like  spirit- 
ualistic functions,  carried  on  in  darkness  and  silence  ;  but 
the  mingling  of  atmospheres  produces  a  mental  excitement 
that  has  hurried  many  a  domestic  drama  to  its  denouement. 
And  the  Londoner  who  understands  his  hansom  will  agree 
with  me.  She — the  She  with  a  capital  S — not  unfrequently 
becomes  as  fascinating  as  the  "  She  "  described  by  Mr.  Rider 
Haggard  (even  if  she  was  not  so  before),  when,  with  a  flash 
of  ankle  and  whiteness,  she  has  stepped  into  the  expectant 
hansom,  and  we  have  followed  her,  and  then,  by  closing 
the  doors,  have  covered  our  knees  with  the  outlying  regions 
of  her  opera-cloak  and  other  "  things."  The  celibate 
philosopher  will  agree  with  me  that  to  order  the  "  cabby  " 
to  "  put  down  the  glass "  is  fatal ;  the  hansom  then 
becomes  worse  than  a  coupe" ;  the  half-doors  are  bad 
enough  !  It  is  not  necessary  to  talk ;  we  have  most  of  us 
observed  that  She  leans  more  heavily  upon  our  extended 
hand  in  getting  out  than  she  did  on  getting  in. 

Eric  and  Daphne  were  in  love  with  one  another.  They  said 
but  little  during  the  transit,  but  lounged,  rather  than  sat, 
crushed  against  one  another  by  the  narrowness  of  the  cab, 
and  gave  themselves  over  to  the  unrestrained  enjoyment  of 
their  thoughts,  trusting  to  the  rattle  of  the  vehicle  to  drown 
the  almost  audible  beating  of  one  heart,  if  not  of  two.  Ar- 
rived at  the  doors  of  the  Parthenon  their  eyes  flashed 
strangely  bright  in  the  darkness,  and  both  felt  almost  re- 
lieved that  the  ride  was  over,  and  that  the  play  was  there  to 
obviate  the  necessity  of  conversation. 

But  between  riding  with  a  woman  within  the  confines  of 
a  cab  and  sitting  next  to  her  in  the  stalls  of  a  theatre  there 
is  little  to  choose  ;  indeed,  for  harmlessness,  I  think  the 
palm  might  be  given  to  the  former.  We  enter  and  take  our 
seats,  and  then,  passing  an  arm  behind  her,  we  help  her  to 
remove  her  wraps  and  reveal — for  ourselves — the  ivory  skin, 
the  rounded  arms,  and  the  delicious  dress  which  has  been 


"  i:  AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  7  I 

hitherto  hidden  from  us  by  the  aforesaid  wraps  ;  and,  in  so 
doing,  we  envelop  ourselves,  as  it  were,  in  a  cloud  of  the 
delicate  fragrance  of  the  perfumes  with  which  women  in  all 
parts  of  the  civilized  world  love  to  heighten  the  fascination 
to  themselves.  We  settle  ourselves  luxuriously  in  our  seats, 
and  the  play  commences ;  after  a  moment  the  spirit  moves 
us  to  rest  our  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  stall ;  we  find  it 
already  occupied,  and  draw  our  sleeve  away  again  with  a 
thrill  !  Next  time  we  are  more  successful ;  the  arm  is  unen- 
cumbered ;  she  has  leaned  foward  interested  in  the  play  :  in  a 
minute  or  two,  the  strain  of  attention  relieved,  she,  in  turn, 
rests  her  elbow  on — well,  on  the  arm  of  the  stall,  after  we 
have  apologized  sotto  voce  and  once  more  vacated  the  posi- 
tion. Then  something  in  the  play  calls  for  a  whispered 
comment,  and  a  lovely  head  is  bent  close  to  our  own  to 
listen,  and  to  require  the  remark  to  be  repeated;  then  our 
heads  separate,  and  for  a  few  seconds  we  haven't  an  idea 
of  what  the  play  is  all  about.  Next,  the  opera-glasses  fall 
down,  and  we  dive  amidst  a  maelstrom — so  it  seems  to  us — 
of  laces  and  stuffs  to  recover  the  same,  whilst  the  prettiest 
hand  in  the  world  holds  the  maelstrom  aside  to  facilitate  the 
search,  and  the  glasses  are  gently  laid  back  in  the  place 
whence  they  originally  fell.  Next  minute,  the  act-drop 
falls,  the  lights  are  turned  up,  and  we  chatter  volubly  about 
the  play,  uttering  commonplace  platitudes  against  which 
our  intelligence  would  revolt  in  broad  daylight,  ask  stupid 
questions  which  require  and  expect  no  answers,  and  answer 
at  random  questions  that  have  not  been  asked. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  next  act — the  act  in  which  the 
love  interest  of  the  play  develops.  It  is  getting  interesting; 
and  now — quite  unconsciously — both  our  elbows  rest  upon 
the  intermediary  arm,  which  has  by  this  time  assumed  the 
role  of  the  wall  which  separated  Pyramus  and  Thisbe — not 
touching  one  another  ;  that  only  happens — unconsciously 
also — about  half-way  through  the  act ;  and  we  are  almost 
surprised  to  find  that  it  is  the  case,  when  the  act-drop  falls 
once  more,  and  turning  to  one  another  simultaneously,  each 


72  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

reads  in  the  other's  eyes  what  each — we,  that  is — would 
have  done  under  circumstances  similar  to  those  in  the  play. 
Between  the  second  and  third  acts  we  chat  reasonably, 
almost  confidentially,  on  subjects  quite  personal,  quite 
unconnected  with  the  play  we  are  witnessing,  leaning  back 
in  our  stalls,  our  shoulders  almost,  if  not  quite,  touching  one 
another.  We  are  interrupted — almost  surprised — when  the 
lights  in  the  house  go  down,  and  the  stage  lights  up  once 
more.  There  is  little  or  no  pretence  during  the  last  act ; 
we  sit  as  close  together  as  circumstances — i.e.  the  people 
behind — will  allow.  As  the  story  before  us  draws  to  its  cli- 
max, and  everything  ends  happily,  we  fancy  we  can  hear 
one  another  breathe ;  and  when  the  concluding  sentence, 
often  the  best-written  in  the  whole  play,  is  drowned  by  the 
rustle  of  people  struggling  into  their  outer  garments,  and 
groping  for  hats  which  have  somehow  gone  off  on  voyages  of 
discovery  by  themselves,  we  carefully  and  with  procrastina- 
tion— which  is  the  soul  of  business,  in  spite  of  the  proverb — 
wrap  her  up,  in  dire  terror  lest  the  night  air  should  attack 
that  beautiful  throat,  and  we  are  rewarded  by  ever  so  slight 
a  pressure  of  the  hand  that  rests  on  our  arm  as  we  reach 
the  outer  world  and  embark  once  more  in  the  insidious 
hansom,  which  we  direct,  with  an  air  of  luxurious  proprietor- 
ship, to  drive  to  her  house. 

On  the  application  of  the  above  analysis  to  the  circum- 
stances of  my  story  I  offer  no  comment.  Eric  Trevanion 
and  Daphne  Preault  witnessed  the  performance  at  the  Par- 
thenon— and  drove  home  to  Holland  Street. 

"Waters,  both  strong  and  mild,  with  biscuits  and  a  fire 
will  be  in  the  studio,"  said  the  Princess  Daphne  ;  "  won't  you 
come  in  for  an  instant  before  you  stroll  down  the  street  ?  " 

"  Thanks !  with  pleasure  ;  "  and  they  went  in. 

Clytemnestra,  or  for  short,  "  Clyde,"  the  ebony  tirewoman 
of  the  Princess  Daphne,  had  removed  her  opera-cloak,  her 
fan,  her  gloves,  and  other  impedimenta,  and  had  left  the 
pair  alone.  Whilst  Eric  busied  himself  with  the  innocuous 
comestibles  that  stood  on  a  little  table  by  the  fire,  Daphne 


"  L* AMOUR  EST  ENFAA'T  DE  BOHEME."  73 

threw  herself  onto  the  lounge  and  sat,  lazily  watching  him, 
and  prosecuting  a  search  after  conversation.  Between  them 
there  had  sprung  up  a  sudden  restraint  which  was  quite 
unusual ;  the  pauses  in  the  conversation  were  longer  than 
necessary,  the  stray  remarks  were  mostly  irrelevant,  the 
observations  were  spasmodic  and  impersonal.  They  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  compare  their  feelings  with  perfect 
frankness  seemed  conscious  that  a  tacit  understanding  had 
been  raised  between  them,  had  grown  up  without  their 
knowledge,  and  forbade  a  word  that  might  invoke — they 
knew  not  what !  Who  can  say  which  hand-pressure,  which 
tremor  of  the  eyelid,  which  quiver  of  the  lips  had  shown 
them  that  a  chapter  of  their  lives  was  ended  ?  Who  can 
say  which  lightning-flash  of  passion  had  riven  the  cloud  of 
their  happy  camaraderie,  showing  the  heaven  of  love  beyond  ? 
Whatever  might  be  their  future,  the  unconscious  careless- 
ness of  their  past  companionship  was  left  behind  forever. 

And  now  she  leaned  forward  and  gazed  into  the  fire,  and 
he  could  look  at  the  exquisite  lines  of  her  neck  and  back. 
Her  hair  grew  exactly  to  the  "  beauty  line,"  and  being 
drawn  up  rather  high  on  the  head  left  a  few  lovely  little  soft 
curls  at  the  back  of  the  neck,  their  dusky  warmth  making 
her  white  skin  still  more  dazzling  and  cool.  After  a 
moment  of  eloquent  silence  she  said  : 

"  Eric,  come  here." 

He  approached  her,  and  impulsively  he  sank  on  his  knees 
on  the  hearth-rug,  at  her  side  and  a  little  behind  her,  and, 
feeling  as  though  it  were  too  good  to  be  true — some  deceitful 
vision  that  he  feared  to  dispel — he  remained  in  rapt  wonder 
looking  at  her,  scarcely  breathing. 

Was  it  a  simple  accident,  or  the  unconscious  magnetism  of 
love  that  drew  Daphne's  head  back  toward  him,  back  until 
his  lips  almost  touched  the  little  curls  ?  and  then,  he 
breathed  rather  than  imprinted  a  kiss,  as  if  by  accident, 
upon  the  beautiful  neck.  As  he  did  so,  with  a  strong  shud- 
der she  leant  back  in  the  lounge,  and  with  little  more  than 


74  THE  PKIXCESS  DAPHNE. 

curiosity  in  her  face,  though  a  delirious  weight  lay  on  her 
heart,  she  said  in  a  steady,  clear  voice  : 

"  My  poor  boy,  you  will  only  be  more  miserable  if  I  kiss 
you — and  some  day  you  will  blame  me — " 

Before  she  can  say  any  more,  he  has  construed  her  words 
for  himself,  and  such  a  torrent  of  kisses  rains  upon  her  hair, 
her  eyes,  her  lips,  that  she  is  unable  to  frame  a  thought  or 
utter  a  word,  but  gives  herself  up  to  the  moment.  The  sub- 
tle charm  of  the  tender  violence  little  by  little  overpowers 
her,  a  stifled  sob  breaks  from  her,  and  she  turns  deathly 
pale.  If  he  had  understood  women  better  he  would  not 
have  taken  his  arms  from  about  her,  as  he  does  for  an  in- 
stant, and  ask  her  if  she  feels  faint !  The  sound  of  his  voice 
destroys  the  spell ;  she  puts  him  from  her  almost  roughly, 
with  a  nervous  force  that  surprises  him,  and  says : 

"  Go — go — or  I  shall  never  forgive  you  ;  "  and  as  he  tries 
to  speak,  she  interrupts  him,  saying,  "  Eric  !  I  know  I  am  in 
your  power — but  I  am  only  a  woman — go,  for  God's  sake ! 
go,  and  don't  take  advantage  of  that  power." 

It  is  a  terrible  temptation  to  him  as  he  holds  the  gorgeous 
figure  in  his  arms,  and  he  hesitates  :  then  his  manhood  con- 
quers ;  he  rises  with  a  little  stagger,  and  without  daring  to 
look  at  her,  he  hurries  from  the  studio.  The  front-door 
slams,  and  he  is  gone.  And  is  she  grateful  to  him  for  his 
obedience  ?  Ah  !  who  knows  ? 

With  the  sharp  click  of  the  outer  gate-latch,  distinctly 
audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  Daphne  awoke,  as  from 
the  influence  of  a  dream.  She  rose,  straightening  and 
smoothing  the  folds  of  her  dress  as  if  to  brush  away  the 
touch  of  the  man,  and,  walking  to  the  fire,  stretched  out  her 
icy-cold  fingers  to  the  blaze.  As  the  warmth  began  to  cir- 
culate in  her  veins  the  softness  faded  from  the  great  brown 
eyes,  and  in  its  place  came  a  calm,  questioning,  introspective 
look,  which  would  have  done  more  to  pull  Eric  Trevanion 
together,  could  he  have  seen  it,  than  the  radical  brandy-and- 
soda  that  he  gave  himself  on  reaching  his  rooms. 

Then,  turning  from  the  fire,  she  lit  a  cigarette  and  began 


"L 'AMOUR  EST  ENFANT  DE  BOHEME."  75 

pacing  up  and  down  the  studio.  It  was  characteristic  of  her 
to  vivisect  herself  with  far  less  mercy  than  she  would  have 
shown  to  another  woman  ;  her  code  had  ever  been,  "  mercy 
and  extenuating  circumstances  for  her  feeble  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  but  for  herself ! — the  hard,  uncompromising  Truth." 
So  she  figuratively  placed  her  inmost  being  in  a  sort  of  glass 
case,  put  it  upon  the  piano,  turned  up  the  lights,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  examine  its  intricacies  critically.  No  flaw  escaped 
her — no  weakness  was  condoned — no  excuse  of  sex  was  par- 
doned. What  were  her  feelings  as  regarded  Eric  Trevanion  ? 
— this  was  the  burden  of  her  investigation  ;  did  she  wish  he 
had  remained  ? 

Yes,  she  would  answer  herself  truthfully,  she  wished  he 
had  not  been  so  obedient — or  so  English.  Why  had  he  not 
forced  her  to  say  she  cared  for  him  as  she  had  never 
cared  for  man  before  ?  Should  she  marry  him  ?  Was  what 
she  now  felt  the  love  she  had  so  often  read  about,  and  had 
never  believed  in  or  sympathized  with  ?  Hardly.  She  had 
no  more  desire  to  marry  him  now  than  she  had  had  before 
the  events  of  the  night  which  was  now  shivering  with  the 
chill  of  approaching  dawn.  No,  she  wanted  to  be  free — but 
she  wanted  Eric  as  the  companion  of  that  freedom ;  but 
even  with  all  her  independence  of  spirit,  could  she  stretch 
the  mantle  of  Bohemia  so  wide  as  to  cover  that  ?  Hardly. 
But  the  weird  confusion  in  the  glass  case  said  plainly,  "  I 
want  liberty,  and  what  is  liberty  without  him  ? — a  mere  sim- 
ulacrum of  "independence."  This  strange  Creole  girl,  against 
whom  no  word  of  reproach  had  ever  been  breathed,  was 
sensible  that  before  morning  her  vital  choice  would  be  made. 
She  could  do  as  she  pleased  on  payment  of  the  cost — Lib- 
erty and  Eric.  But  the  cost  was  enormous  ;  in  this  one 
venture  she  was  called  upon  to  sink  the  entire  capital  of 
her  womanhood.  She  brought  the  whole  of  her  faculty  of 
mental  concentration — so  rare  in  woman — to  the  solution  of 
this  point. 

The  recklessness  and  fatal  danger  of  the  choice  attracted 
rather  than  repelled  her.  Her  savage  nature,  once  aroused, 


76  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

found  an  added  charm  in  the  thought  of  thus  gambling  away 
her  most  precious  possession  ;  in  her  perfect  chastity  she 
could  look  upon  the  commission  of  a  sin  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  without  a  shock.  Why  do  I  continue  ?  In  seeking  to 
show  the  complicated  nature  of  Daphne's  personality  I  can- 
not escape  being  either  minute  to  weariness  or  vague  to 
incomprehensibility.  It  was  this  very  confusion  of  charac- 
teristics that  was  one  of  her  greatest  fascinations. 

For  hours  the  brain  battled  with  the  heart — the  spirit  with 
the  flesh ;  and  as  the  bell  of  the  neighboring  Carmelite  Mon- 
astery roused  the  monks  to  Lauds  and  Prime,  Daphne  Pre'- 
ault  seated  herself  at  the  writing-table  and  wrote  to  Eric : 

"I  have  fought,  and  I  have  conquered.  I  am  yours — 
come  to  me." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MESMERISM. 

IN  the  society  of  every  city  in  the  world,  I  suppose  there 
must  be,  by  some  inscrutable  law  of  nature,  some  nasty  peo- 
ple— probably  to  make  us  appreciate  the  nice  ones.  What- 
ever may  be  the  reason,  however,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
New  York,  at  the  time  that  I  chronicle,  was  no  exception  to 
the  rule  ;  and  even  in  the  fascinating  cosmopolitan  society  of 
the  modern  Gotham  there  were  a  few  nasty  people,  of  whom 
undoubtedly  the  nastiest  were  by  common  consent  the  Van 
Baulk'ems.  Mrs.  Odious  Van  Baulk'em  regarded  herself  as 
handsome,  and  as  select  in  her  strife  after  social  position. 
I  have  often  observed  that  people  who  refuse  to  recognize 
those  of  their  own  class  in  life,  and  seek  to  entertain  their 
social  superiors,  usually  find  themselves  reduced  to  enter- 
taining the  sediment  of  a  class  superior  to  their  own — the 
impecunious  and  shady  ones,  who  will  go  anywhere  for  a 
dinner  and  daughters  with  money — and  so  entertaining, 
fondly  imagine  their  society  to  be  "  select."  Well !  select  it 
is ;  but  it  is  a  selection  of  the  riff-raff  of  a  class  into  the  solid 
substance  of  which  they  would  give  their  eyes  to  be  admit- 
ted. The  Van  Baulk'ems  were  of  this  complexion,  and  this 
was  the  kind  of  society  that  one  would  meet  at  their  house 
on  Fifth  Avenue  should  one  be  so  imprudent  as  to  pass 
through  its  portals  on  the  strength  of  one  of  the  innumera- 
ble cards  that  Mrs.  Van  Baulk'em  was  in  the  habit  of  flip- 
ping all  over  New  York,  via  the  "  Society  List,"  and  especi- 
ally among  the  young  men  who  might  possibly  feel  justi- 
fied by  their  constitutions  in  "  going  in  for "  the  angular 
and  highly-coloured  charms  of  Miss  Van  Baulk'em,  or  the 
clever,  pretty  vulgarity  of  Miss  Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em,  a 

77 


78  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

young  lady  suspected  of  society  journalism,  who  had  been 
hawked  round  Europe  and  America  for  years,  in  search  of 
an  adventurous  swain.  But  such  had  not  turned  up  ;  and 
though  it  seemed  likely  that  the  millions  of  the  elder  might 
attract  a  penniless  European  of  doubtful  antecedents,  the 
younger,  Miss  Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em,  showed  no  inclina- 
tion to  "  go  off." 

From  this  very  slight  sketch  of  a  very  unpleasant  family, 
the  reader  will  have  gathered  that  the  Van  Baulk'ems'  house 
was  hardly  one  where  Paul  du  Peyral  would  elect  to  spend 
much  of  his  leisure  time ;  but  as,  on  his  first  arrival  in  the 
city,  he  had  dined  at  the  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  mildly  lionized  as  a  social  savant  by 
the  family;  and  as,  moreover,  there  was  something  essen- 
tially piquante  and  refreshing  about  the  ready  repartee  of 
Miss  Parthenia,  he  would  periodically  drop  in  on  Mrs. 
Van  Baulk'em's  reception  day,  and  converse  with  that  young 
person  for  a  space.  One  of  these  occasions  took  place 
about  two  months  after  his  marriage  with  Mahmoure  di 
Zulueta,  and,  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  cause  and  effect, 
that  visit  materially  influenced  the  course  of  the  history  I 
am  recording  in  these  pages.  The  opera  season  had 
recently  commenced,  and  Paul  had  unconsciously  made  him- 
self very  interesting  and  instructive  on  the  subject  of  the 
German  school  of  opera,  with  Wagner  as  the  text  of  his 
homily. 

"  Why  don't  we  see  you  more  at  the  opera,  Mr.  du  Pey- 
ral ?  "  had  queried  the  fair  Parthenia. 

"  Because  I  have  but  little  time  for  such  pleasures.  My 
work  is  of  a  kind  that  appreciates,  nay  requires,  the  peace- 
fulness  of  the  night  hours;  and  again,  the  conversation  for 
which  one  goes  to  the  opera  in  New  York  is  so  cruelly  in- 
terrupted by  the  music  that  one  has  no  chance  of  appreciat- 
ing it  and  profiting  by  it." 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  is  possible  to  divide  one's  atten- 
tion ? " 

"  No,  I  don't,  Miss  Van  Baulk'em.     To  appreciate  a  mel- 


MESMERISM.  79 

ody  in  an  opera,  one  must  have  followed  very  carefully  the 
harmonies  which  have  led  to  it.  An  isolated  melody  is  like 
a  proverb  in  a  foreign  language,  which  one  knows  by  heart, 
and  of  which  one  admires  the  meaning  and  sound,  without 
knowing  its  literal  translation." 

"  Well,  I  quite  agree  with  you,  only  I  wanted  to  get  at 
your  sentiments  on  the  subject." 

Miss  Parthenia  was  accounted  a  brilliant  conversation- 
alist, and  deservedly  so,  for  she  had  fully  realized  that,  in 
woman,  conversational  brilliancy  consists  of  little  else  than 
an  appreciation  of  the  conversing  man  ;  and  Paul  left  the 
Van  Baulk'ems'  house  that  day — he  was  but  human,  after  all 
— with  a  pleased  conviction  that  the  girl  was  not  so  bad  as 
she  was  painted  perhaps,  and  as  he  stepped  onto  the  avenue, 
recorded  in  his  note-book  an  engagement  he  had  made  to 
visit  the  Van  Baulk'ems'  box  at  the  opera  on  the  following 
evening. 

Two  months  before  this,  he  and  Mahmoure'  had  fled  New 
York  and  hidden  themselves  in  a  little  Canadian  village  on 
the  banks  of  the  Niagara  River,  and  beside  that  grand, 
placid  stream,  that  gives  so  little  indication,  save  by  a  dull 
murmur  on  a  very  quiet  day,  of  the  agony  of  turbulence  with 
which  it  has  rushed  over  the  falls  a  few  miles  further  up,  had 
become  man  and  wife,  in  the  presence  alone  of  a  couple  of 
parishioners,  the  parson,  and  God.  There  had  followed  a 
few  weeks  of  pure,  lovely  delight,  in  contemplation  of  the 
turquoise  water,  with  Ontario  in  the  distance,  reminding  one 
by  its  colour  and  placidity  of  the  Trasimene  Lake  ;  and  then 
they  had  returned  to  New  York  to  a  life  outwardly  un- 
changed, but  new  in  every  thought,  both  to  Mahmoure  in 
her  nest  in  West  Forty-first  Street,  and  to  Paul  in  his  bach- 
elor apartments — not  so  very  far  off.  The  world  remarked 
that  they  seemed  to  be  "  very  good  friends,"  and  looked  at 
them  with  uninterested  curiosity  when  they  appeared  in 
public  together,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Bohemia  in 
which  they  lived ;  but  not  on  that  account  did  disinterested 
mammas  cease  to  play  upon  Paul  the  shrapnel  of  invitations 


8O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

to  every  kind  of  entertainment  where  marriageable  daugh- 
ters do  congregate. 

The  light  of  life  seemed  to  be  returning  to  Mahmoure's 
pale  cheeks,  the  fire  of  life  began  to  shine,  as  of  yore, 
from  her  eyes ;  but  Paul  was  unchanged,  save  in  the 
eyes  of  one  or  two  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  who  told 
one  another  that  he  seemed  to  lack  in  a  measure  his  old 
enthusiasm,  to  enter  less  eagerly  into  the  somewhat  exhaust- 
ing schemes  of  amusement  they  put  before  him ;  that  his 
mouth  was  less  determined,  that  his  eye  was  less  bright 
than  of  old,  when  they  disturbed  him  at  his  books  and  at  his 
weird  calculations,  at  hours  when  domesticated  New  York 
has  sought  its  virtuous  couch. 

Nevertheless,  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  day  follow- 
ing that  of  his  visit  above  recorded  found  him  entering  the 
Van  Baulk'ems'  box,  to  be  greeted  warmly  by  Mrs.  Van 
Baulk'em,  who  was  chatting  with  a  man  on  the  sofa  in  the 
ante-loge,  and  to  be  "  sent  forward  "  in  order  to  be  seen 
talking  with  the  dear  girls  in  front.  It  was  during  an 
entre-acte,  so  that  Miss  Parthenia  had  no  compunction  in  pro- 
ceeding to  draw  him  out,  an  operation  in  which  that  young 
lady  excelled,  and  in  deference  to  which  Paul  subsequently 
wrote  an  article  dedicated  to  her  and  entitled  "  The  Conver- 
sational Corkscrew — a  study  of  Platitudinous  Periphrasis  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Lexington  Park  has  told  me,"  began  the  siren, 
"that  you  are  most  interesting,  M.  du  Peyral,  if  one  can  get 
you  to  talk  about  transmigration  of  souls — metem-what's- 
his-name — you  know." 

"  Metempsychosis  ? " 

"  Yes,  that's  it — and  I  have  been  thinking  how  it  would 
be  if  one  could  suddenly  change  places  and  souls  with  one 
of  those  people  up  in  the  gallery.  How  strange  it  would  be 
to  find  one's  self  suddenly  full  of  new  ideas,  perhaps  wondering 
if  one  can  afford  to  come  again  on  Friday,  and  whether  the 
people  down  here  enjoy  themselves  more  than  they  do  up 
there." 

"  I  think,  mademoiselle,  that  if  you  could  make  the  change 


MESMERISM.  8 1 

you  desire,  you  would  probably  find  that  you  were  in  an 
atmosphere  of  genuine  appreciation  of  the  music,  whilst  in 
your  place  here  would  appear,  by  the  exchange,  a  stupid, 
unsociable  creature  who  actually  wanted  to  listen,  and  might 
even  go  so  far  as  to  say  '  Hush ! '  when  your  neighbors  talk 
« small  talk '  and  '  scandal '  to  the  music  of  the  '  Gotterdam- 
merung.'  Think  !  how  terrible  !  " 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  I  should  rather  like  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  look  at  me  for  a  moment." 

She  did  so,  and  almost  immediately  closed  her  eyes,  and 
Paul  smiled  a  little  self-satisfied  smile.  Unfortunately  Miss 
Van  Baulk'em,  observing  that  her  sister  had  sunk  from  scan- 
dal to  silence,  and  fearful  lest  she  might  rise  from  silence  to 
snores,  tapped  her  with  her  fan  and  exclaimed, 

"  Thenie  !  you're  going  to  sleep ! " 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  looking  at  Paul,  said,  "  How 
odd  !  I  just  closed  my  eyes,  and  there  I  was  in  the  gallery 
when  Nell  disturbed  me."  And  then,  seeing  the  smile  on 
Paul's  face,  she  exclaimed,  "  You  wretch  !  I  believe  you 
had  something  to  do  with  that." 

"  Not  at  all !  "  returned  he ;  and  then,  rising,  he  added, 
"  Alas,  I  must  be  very  dull  to-day ;  you  were  nearly  asleep  ! 
Au  revoir;  when  next  we  meet  tell  me  what  you  think  of — 
the  opera." 

"  You  will  come  soon — very  soon  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure — good-night." 

As  he  made  his  adieux  to  the  mother  in  the  ante-loge  he 
caught  sight  of  the  man  sitting  by  her  side.  A  dark,  hand- 
some man  with  straight  brows,  a  coarse  mouth,  and  square 
jaws.  Paul  looked  at  him  inquisitively,  and  the  man 
returned  the  gaze  without  flinching  :  the  next  moment  Paul 
had  left  the  box.  Outside,  in  the  corridor,  he  stopped 
still  for  a  moment,  and  then,  looking  on  the  ground,  began 
pacing  up  and  down,  muttering  the  while — "  Who  is  he  ? 
Who  is  he  ?  Where  have  I  seen  him  before  ?  " 
6 


82  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

From  another  box,  during  the  next  entre-acte,  he  saw  him 
again,  talking  in  the  front  of  the  box  with  Miss  Parthenia 
Van  Baulk'em.  Then  the  whole  drama  came  back  to  him. 
Act  i.  A  country  village,  a  beautiful  woman,  a  handsome 
stranger.  Act  2.  A  dishonoured  wife,  a  wagging  tongue,  a 
hurried  flight.  Act  3.  South  Belgravia,  a  "  scene  "  or  two, 
and  an  outcast.  That  was  all.  And  there  was  Charles 
Sturton  Baker,  in  superlative  costume,  displaying  his  hand- 
some face  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  The  Van 
Baulk'ems  had  got  him  ! 

Paul  remembered  the  example  of  the  eminent  firm  of  soap- 
boilers who  made  a  large  fortune  by  attending  to  their  own 
business,  and  strolled  home  in  the  moonlight,  Baker,  the 
Van  Baulk'ems,  the  opera,  everything  dismissed  from  his 
mind  by  a  mental  picture  of  a  little,  lithe  figure  that  lay 
curled  upon  the  huge  divan,  in  Forty-first  Street,  looking  at 
the  clock,  and  wondering  whether  "  Gotterdammerung  "  was 
one  of  the  long  operas,  or  whether  he  would  be  there  soon. 

A  footstep  in  the  hall-way,  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  he  is 
there,  kneeling  at  her  feet  and  playing  with  that  wondrous 
hair,  of  which  he  used  gayly  to  say,  "  the  sunshine,  when  it 
kissed  it,  turned  to  darkness  for  very  envy." 

"  You  are  tired,  my  poor  Paul — the  room  is  hot,"  she  says, 
passing  her  ridiculous  handkerchief  across  his  forehead. 

"  No,  no,  sweetheart — it's  not  that — I  don't  quite  know 
what  it  is ;  it  has  come  on  quite  suddenly."  He  looks  into 
her  eyes  until  she  seems  to  draw  his  very  soul  into  hers,  and 
then,  suddenly  rising  with  an  exclamation  almost  of  pain,  he 
says  : 

"  Do  you  know,  Mahmourd,  I  don't  think  I'm  as  strong  as 
I  used  to  be  ?  These  mesmeric  experiments  I've  been  doing 
lately  seem  to  take  a  great  deal  more  out  of  me  than  they 
used  to — I've  been  feeling  tired  and  distracted.  But  never 
mind  about  me  ;  there  is  something  I  wanted  to  ask  you — 
what  was  it  ? — oh,  yes.  Do  you  know  anything  of  a  man 
named  Charles  Sturton  Baker  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  yes — what  of  him  ?  " 


MESMERISM.  83 

"  He's  here,  in  New  York.  I  was  in  a  box  at  the  opera 
with  him  to-night.  What  do  you  know  about  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  much  that  is  definite  beyond  that  affair  about 

poor  little  B ;  you  know  all  about  that,  I  suppose. 

After  she  went  to  grief,  he  used  to  hang  about  the  theatre, 
and  played  ' 'Inferno  e  Tommaso  '  among  the  girls.  He  once 
had  the  audacity  to  make  love  to  me,  and  I  had  him  thrown 
out  of  the  place  by  a  scene-shifter.  What's  he  up  to  now  ?  " 

"  I  think  he's  going  to  marry  Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em — or 
rather,  her  money." 

"  Well,  let  him  ;  they  about  suit  one  another." 

"  No  !  After  all,  she's  only  a  fool — and  he's  a  knave  ;  and 
though,  according  to  the  dictum  of  the  philosopher,  the  two 
would  make  an  interesting  little  microcosm,  she  doesn't 
deserve  such  a  fate  as  that.  I'm  sorry  for  her." 

"  Well,  what  can  you  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  But,  after  all,  Miss  Parthenia  knows  I've 
been  all  over  the  world,  and  perhaps  she  may  ask  me  about 
him." 

"  And  if  she  does,  cher  ami,  don't  know  anything  about 
the  animal." 

"  That  would  hardly  be  fair,  would  it  ?  If  a  fellow  can 
protect  a  woman,  surely  he  ought  to  do  it — eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  he  ought ;  but  if  you  undertake  to  protect 
a  woman  against  an  unscrupulous  blackguard  who  happens 
to  be  her  lover,  you  will  probably  find  yourself  in  a  most 
enterprising  little  mess.  But  sapristoche  I  Paul,  since  when 
this  concern  for  the  little  Van  Baulk'em  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  think  she's  a  clever  little  thing,  for 
all  her  vulgarity  ;  at  any  rate  she's  sharp,  and  I'd  sooner 
talk  to  her  for  half  an  hour  than  to  nine  out  of  ten  of  these 
society  women.  Now,  make  me  a  scene  of  jealousy." 

"  Certainly  !     Kiss  me  immediately  !  " 

***#*# 

"  Paul,"  said  Mahmoure,  presently,  when  their  conversa- 
tion had  turned  into  a  more  reasonable  channel,  "  this  mes- 
merism of  yours  is  killing  you;  I'm  certain  of  it,  and  you 


84  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

must  stop  it.  Every  time  you  make  your  experiments  with 
me  as  a  *  subject,'  I  feel  stronger  and  better  than  I  did 
before  them ;  but  simultaneously  you  look  paler  and  more 
worn.  Mon  cher,  with  a  physique  like  yours,  you  require  all 
your  vital  force  to  keep  it  going — you  musn't  waste  it  on 
me.  What  is  the  use,  dear  heart  ?  I  am  a  dying  woman  ; 
your  absolute  influence  over  me  shows  it,  if  nothing  else  ; 
reserve  your  force  for  some  fresh  young  subject  who  won't 
sap  your  energies  as  I  do." 

"  Tiens !  listen  to  her !  here  is  Mahmoure  posing  as  a 
charming  little  vampire !  Why,  darling,  I've  a  great  deal 
more  strength  than  I  want  for  myself,  and  if  I  can  make 
over  the  surplus  to  you  by  mesmerizing  you,  you  ought  to 
be  as  glad  of  it  as  I  am.  But  come,  we  waste  time.  You 
remember  that  experiment  we  made  when  I  sent  your  soul 
across  the  sea,  and  you  told  me  what  was  going  on  in  a 
house  in  London — well,  I  want  to  carry  that  experience  still 
further.  I  am  going  to  mesmerize  you  and  to  try  to  identify 
your  soul  with  that  of  someone  over  there,  and  learn  what 
that  someone  is  thinking  about  as  well  as  doing" 

"  But,  Paul,  it's  not  possible." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  we  can  try.  If  we  succeed,  after  all 
it's  only  a  progression  in  the  clairvoyant  experiences  with 
which  we  have  been  so  successful.  It  depends,  I  think,  only 
on  one  thing,  and  that  is,  the  existence  of  a  personality  over 
there  identical  with  your  own  or  mine  ;  if  such  exists  you 
will  be  able,  if  my  will  is  strong  enough  to  direct  you,  to 
identify  yourself  psychologically  with  some  man  or  woman 
over  there,  for  whom,  if  you  knew  them  in  the  flesh,  you  would 
feel  an  affinity  that  would  make  me  madly  jealous.  Come, 
let  us  try ;  the  result,  if  we  attain  it,  will  be  an  enormous 
one." 

"  Very  well,  Paul — but  promise  not  to  over-exert  your- 
self." 

"  Bah  !  what  a  timid  little  woman  it  is  !  Now,  make  your- 
self comfortable." 

And  Mahmoure  du  Peyral — to  call  her  for  the  first  time 


MESMERISM.  85 

by  her  new,  real  name — settled  herself  among  the  cushions 
of  the  divan. 

"  Look  into  my  eyes — there  ! — be  quiet — quiet — ah  ! — so  ;  " 
and  Paul  put  his  hand  on  the  forehead  of  the  woman,  who 
sighed  deeply  and  closed  her  eyes.  "  So — you  are  asleep, 
are  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say." 

"  You  are  in  a  room  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  is  it  furnished  ?  " 

"As  a  studio." 

"  Is  there  a  looking-glass  in  it  T" 

"  Yes." 

"  Look  into  it  and  describe  yourself."     [A  pause.] 

"  Well  ? " 

"  A  tall  woman  with  dark  hair — a  man  is  by  my  side — 
Eric!" 

"  Who  is  Eric  ?  " 

"  Oh !  don't  you  know  ?  he  is  my  lover,  my  good,  brave 
Eric." 

"  Is  there  a  writing-table  in  the  studio  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  There  are  letters  addressed  to  you  lying  on  it.  Read 
me  the  address  of  one  of  them." 

"  Miss  Preault,  The  Cottage,  Holland  Street,  W. 

"  What  is  the  name  ?  " 

"Miss  Prdault." 

"Daphne?" 

"  Yes — yes — who  called  me  ?  Eric  !  my  darling,  there  is 
some  one  in  the  room  ;  oh,  my  love,  help  ! — "  and  the 
little  figure  on  the  divan  began  to  writhe  as  if  in  terror. 

Paul  du  Peyral,  trembling  with  the  effort  and  excitement, 
took  the  beautiful  head  in  his  hands  and  blew  softly  upon 


86  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

the  forehead  once  or  twice.  The  convulsions  ceased  slowly, 
and  Mahmoure  opened  her  eyes.  Seeing  Paul  leaning  over 
her,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and,  in  the  terror 
and  excitement  of  the  moment,  burst  into  tears. 

"Come,  come,  sweetheart,"  said  he;  "I  have  tried  you 
too  much.  Ah  !  but  this  is  horrible — wicked — dangerous  ! 
Do  you  know  where  your  soul  has  been  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  only  I  thought  you  were  changed,  over  there, 
or  here,  or  wherever  it  was,  till  I  felt  a  terrible  pain  and 
woke  up." 

Paul  was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  "  Mahmoure,"  said 
he,  "  we  have  trifled  with  a  great  power,  and  its  working  has 
been  more  mysterious  than  I  anticipated ;  more  strange, 
more  marvellous  than  I  ever  could  have  dreamed.  Do  you 
know  that  your  soul  found  that  of  Daphne  Preault  ?  " 

"  What  ?  of  the  woman  you  were  to  have  married  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  Paul,  never  let  us  do  this  again  ;  it  is  not  right." 

"  On  the  contrary,  with  your  help  I  shall  at  last  be  able  to 
find  out  something  about  this  strange  young  woman — but 
not  now  ;  you  are  tired,  and  I  must  leave  you.  I  have  much 
to  do,  much  to  think  of,  to-night ;  to-morrow  we  will  talk  of 
this  again.  Now,  good-night ;  in  half  an  hour  you  must  be 
fast  asleep — do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Paul ;  "  and  after  a  last  wild  embrace,  he  was  gone. 

"  At  last !  at  last !  "  he  cried  to  himself,  as  he  reached  his 
own  rooms  and  began  rapidly  jotting  down  some  notes  in  a 
little  book  with  a  lock-clasp.  "  Through  Mahmoure  I  shall 
have  this  woman — this  Miss  Preault — in  my  power  ;  what 
does  it  mean  ?  Is  it  that  the  same  blood  runs  in  both  our 
veins,  as  old  Preault  used  to  tell  me  sometimes.  What  it 
that  old  story  of  our  common  ancestry  were  true  ?  How  else 
account  for  the  identity  of  our  personalities  ?  for,  unless  my 
researches  have  led  me  astray,  it  must  be  that  which  caused 
Mahmoure  to  single  her  out  as  the  object  of  her  search  for 
a  sympathy  in  Europe.  Oh,  Grand  Principle  of  Life !  if 
you  are  indeed  capable  of  obedience  to  command,  solve  me 


MESMERISM.  87 

your  secret ;  whisper  the  solution  of  this  mystery  to  me — to 
me,  Paul  du  Peyral ! — if  only  to  reward  me  for  the  sacrifice 
to  you  of  the  best  years  of  my  life,  of  my  health,  of  my  very 
soul." 

He  rose  and  began  pacing  the  room ;  suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  raising  his  arms  in  the  air,  cried  : 

"  Daphne  Prdault !  if  you  and  I  are  indeed  one  in  soul, 
and  breathe  with  the  same  life-current  running  through  our 
veins,  show  yourself  to  me — to  me — to  me  !  " 

Then,  suddenly  a  wild  pain  gripped  his  heart,  the  room 
grew  black  around  him,  and  there  stood  before  the  eyes  of 
his  super-excited  imagination  a  woman  such  as  we  have 
described  Daphne  Preault,  but  having  the  features,  almost 
the  face,  of  Paul  du  Peyral.  Then  he  fell  senseless  upon 
his  face,  in  which  condition  his  body-servant  found  him  next 
morning. 

"  Not  a  word  of  this  to  Madame  di  Zulueta,"  said  he  ; 
and  the  magnificently  trained  menial  gave  him  an  assurance, 
which  his  long  experience  of  that  individual's  inflexible  men- 
dacity told  him  was  to  be  implicitly  trusted. 

And  so,  for  the  next  few  days,  he  went  about  as  usual, 
nothing  altered  in  his  manner  to  Mahmoure'  or  to  the  world, 
but  now  and  then  catching  his  breath  for  an  instant,  and 
looking  a  trifle  whiter  round  the  eyes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  he  paid  his  promised  visit'  to  the 
Van  Baulk'ems. 

He  had  not  been  there  more  than  a  few  minutes  when  the 
fair  Parthenia,  corralling  him  into  a  corner,  asked  sud- 
denly : 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Baker — an  Englishman  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Charles  Sturton  Baker  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  I  do.  I  came  across  him  some 
years  ago,  but  though  I  was  presented  to  him,  I  can  hardly 
say  I  know  him." 

"  He  is  very  charming,  is  he  not  ? " 

"  Well,  that  is  a  question  entirely  for  you  to  answer ;  you 


88  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

know  the  English  are  a  queer  people,  and  have  a  different 
standard  from  ours ;  many  actions  which  we  look  upon  as 
blackguardly,  they,  I  believe,  look  upon  as  quite  the  right 
thing  to  do.  I  am  hardly  a  judge ;  Mr.  Baker  has  done 
things  that  I  think  infamous,  but  he  may  be  charming  '  for 
a'  that.1 " 

"  But  he  moves  in  the  best  society  in  England — or  might, 
only  that  he  is  a  quiet,  domesticated  kind  of  man,  and  does 
not  care  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  that  you  have  formed  a  misconcep- 
tion concerning  him ;  he  is  distinctly  what  I  should  call  a 
'fast.'  man.  But,  after  all,  he  only  takes  up  the  oppor- 
tunities afforded  him  by  human  nature  in  the  class  of  society 
in  which  he  moves.  As  for  his  going  into  '  the  best  society,' 
I  should  hardly  say  that  was  correct ;  I  believe  that  my 
'set,'  in  London,  is  pretty  good,  and  I  never  met  him  there. 
I  have  only  come  across  him  in  a  rather  '  rowdy '  country- 
house,  where  he  was  having  a  desperate  flirtation  with  a 
child  of  sixteen." 

"  Is  he  not  very  well  connected  ? " 

"  No — I  think  not.  In  fact,  I  think  that  he  is  rather  by 
way  of  being  an  absolute  nobody  ;  I  may  be  wrong — if  you 
like  I'll  find  out  for  you." 

"Well,  I  should  rather  like  to  know;  but  you  won't  men- 
tion me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

And  so  the  conversation  dropped,  and  presently  Paul 
sought  "  fresh  teas  and  houses  new,"  and  thought  no  more 
about  the  ten-minutes'  chat  that  was  to  have  such  an 
influence  upon  the  fortunes  of  himself  and  Mahmoure  di 
Zulueta. 

It  was  not  till  that  evening  that  an  idea  on  the  subject 
occurred  to  him.  Said  he  to  himself :  "  That  little  girl  is 
evidently  crazily  in  love  with  Baker ;  I  wonder  if  young 
Hawleigh  knows  anything  about  him."  And  the  practical 
form  his  idea  took  was  to  write  and  ask  full  particulars  con- 
cerning the  handsome  adventurer  from  Gabriel  Hawleigh, 


MESMERISM.  89 

whom  he  had  met  in  a  little  French  village  some  years 
before,  and  whom  he  recollected  as  a  young  English  Bohem- 
ian, who  seemed  to  know  everybody  who  had  ever  lived,  by 
sight,  name,  or  reputation. 

He  wrote,  merely  asking  if  Gabriel  knew  anything  definite 
against  the  man,  and  if  he  did  not,  to  send  a  "  kind  "  letter, 
"  not  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith,  but  for  publication." 

Whilst  it  passed  across  the  sea,  he  continued  his  experi- 
ments with  Mahmoure',  learning  by  degrees,  with  an  accu- 
racy resulting  from  the  marvellous  coincidences  of  their 
three  personalities,  almost  as  much  about  the  Princess 
Daphne  as  the  Princess  knew  about  herself. 

And  so  the  world  wagged,  day  following  day,  and  causes 
developing  eternally  into  effects. 

Now,  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  recollections  of  the  days  he  had 
spent  in  a  French  village  on  the  Biscayan  coast  were  not  as 
distinct  as  those  of  the  young  American  who  had  shared  his 
self-imposed  exile,  and  on  receiving  Paul  du  Peyral's  letter  it 
took  him  an  appreciable  time  to  remember  who  Paul  du 
Peyral  was.  Gradually,  however,  the  memory  of  those  half- 
forgotten  days  returned  to  him,  and  he  turned  his  attention 
to  the  object  of  the  enquiry.  Charles  Sturton  Baker  was 
one  of  those  mysterious  individuals  that  one  comes  across 
periodically  in  the  more  careless  section  of  London  society ; 
— one  of  those  young  men  who,  clustered  about  the  door- 
ways of  semi-public  or  subscription  balls,  compare  offensive 
notes  on  the  wives  and  sisters  of  their  friends  ;  who  wear 
ribbed  shirt-fronts  and  single  studs,  cylindrical  collars,  satin 
ties,  and  self-satisfied  smirks  ;  and  who,  when  the  hours  of 
labour  in  the  far-eastern  "  City "  are  at  an  end,  take  the 
Underground  Railway,  and  are  swallowed  up  by  the  deserts 
of  Belsize  or  Bayswater,  by  inaccessible  North-Western 
suburbs,  miles  beyond  the  comparatively  civilized  spots 
"  where  omnibusses  turn  round." 

We  have  said  that  he  was  handsome  ;  add  to  this  that  his 
mysterious  occupation  in  the  murky  orient  supplied  him  with 
the  wherewithal  to  satisfy  the  lower  cravings  of  his  sensual 


90  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

nature,  and  hide  the  essential  feebleness  of  his  mind  behind 
the  venal  adulation  of  impecunious  clerks,  and  caused  the 
said  clerks  to  regard  his  triumphal  progress  along  Piccadilly 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  in  a  hansom,  with  some  Lottie  or 
Tottie  of  the  ballet,  as  evidence  of  his  claims  to  the  titles  of 
"  devil  of  a  fellow "  and  "  rare  good  sort."  The  frisky 
matrons  of  his  inaccessible  suburb,  "the  squaws  of  the 
north-west  frontier  tribes,"  as  Dick  Lindsay  used  to  say, 
hearing  of  his  reckless  lavishings  in  the  matter  of  Gaiety 
stalls  and  five-shilling  cab-fares,  got  up  quite  a  little  excite- 
ment about  this  provincial  Lothario;  and  the  ladies  whom 
he  honoured  with  dishonour  were  looked  upon  almost  with 
reverence  by  the  compulsorily  virtuous  remainder.  And, 
by-the-by,  he  had  crept  into  a  calling  acquaintance  with  the 
Holland  Street  colony,  via  the  Miss  Eastons,  whom  he  had 
met  at  a  subscripto-suburban  ball,  at  the  Kensington  Town- 
Hall. 

Therefore  Gabriel,  though  loth  to  commit  himself,  could 
hardly  profess  entire  ignorance  of  the  swain,  but  could  not 
be  said  to  know  anything  either  for  or  against  him.  He  had 
seen  him  a  member  of  a  party  of  men  at  a  music-hall,  and 
paraphrasing  the  saying  of  the  French  philosopher,  "  La 
nuit  tons  les  homines  sont  gris"  did  not  regard  as  a  crime  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  disorderly,  and,  in  vulgar  parlance, 
"  chucked  out."  That  he  was  over-dressed  did  not  matter 
much.  After  all,  if  one  cuts  one's  coat  according  to  one's 
cloth,  one  wears  it  according  to  one's  income  and  educa- 
tion ;  and  to  him  Mr.  Baker  was  a  tasteless  young  man  who 
wore  very  good  clothes  very  badly.  He  therefore  replied  to 
Paul  du  Peyral,  that  he  knew  nothing  against  the  man  as  a 
man,  and  that  he  was  a  harmless,  stupid  kind  of  thing  who 
couldn't  do  anyone  any  harm  ;  and  armed  with  this  non- 
committal reply,  which  he  thought  would  close  the  matter 
satisfactorily  for  all  parties,  Paul  strolled  up  to  the  Van 
Baulk'ems',  and  showed  it  to  the  fair  Parthenia.  She 
received  it  in  silence,  thanked  M.  du  Peyral  for  the  trouble 


MESMERISM.  91 

he  had  taken,  and  the  incident,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
was  apparently  terminated. 

"  After  all,"  thought  he,  "  abuse  of  one  man  by  another  is 
very  much  like  mud  splashed  up  by  an  unconscious  cart ;  a 
modicum  of  it  is  sure  to  stick,  according  to  the  proverb ;  but 
even  that  modicum,  black  and  sticky  as  it  is  when  it's  wet, 
turns  white  or  at  any  rate  gray  when  it's  dry,  and  is  easily 
brushed  off  ;  and  I've  no  doubt  the  fair  Parthenia  will  rather 
enjoy  the  process  of  brushing  than  otherwise.  Besides,  it 
is  possible  that  Baker  has  become  steadied  down,  and  has 
repented  the  rascalities  of  his  fevered  youth." 

And  so  he  returned  to  his  solitude  and  to  Mahmoure,  and 
to  his  absorbing  interest  in  his  psychical  experiments,  which 
he  concealed  beneath  the  ostensible  search  after  knowledge 
in  the  studies  of  the  Sparrow,  the  Mosquito,  and  the  House- 
fly. 

The  constantly  recurring  "  Psychical  Romance  "  may  be 
described  as  an  intellectual  nightmare  resulting  from  the 
literary  indigestion  of  the  day,  an  indigestion  produced  by  a 
surfeit  of  Wilkie  Collins,  Stevenson,  Hugh  Conway,  and 
Mrs.  Crow  ;  and  lest  I  lay  myself  open  to  the  reproach  of 
swelling  the  mass  of  "  weird  "  literature  of  the  past  decennium, 
I  beg  the  reader  to  skip  the  following  exposition  of  Paul's 
discoveries  in  Mesmerism  and  Telepathy,  but  to  remember 
that  I  have  set  them  out,  and  to  recur  to  them  for  an  explana- 
tion should  the  spirit  move  him  presently  to  fling  aside  the 
book  with  the  exclamation,  "  Bah  !  another  attempt  to  pano- 
ply platitude  with  the  dim  magnificence  of  mystery  !  "  if  he 
is  in  the  habit  of  using  this  sort  of  language  to  himself. 

Shortly,  the  result  of  his  investigations,  arrived  at  after 
months — nay  years — of  wasted  tissue  and  brain-power,  was 
as  follows.  The  whole  matter  resolves  itself  into  one  of 
sympathy.  Two  persons  are  presented  to  one  another  :  the 
one  has  a  personality — a  vital  force — represented  by  the 
numeral  six ;  the  other  has  a  vital  force  represented  by  the 
figure  two.  Very  well  !  They  try  to  converse  :  at  first  the 
conversation  is  spasmodic,  choppy,  uninteresting,  carried  on 


92  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

at  cross  purposes  as  it  were  ;  gradually,  however,  the  mere 
physical  propinquity  lessens  this  mental  discrepancy,  and 
before  long  they  get  interested  in — i.e.  they  understand — 
one  another.  The  higher  force  lowers  itself  in  proportion 
as  the  lower  force  rises,  till  at  last  the  two  are  said  to  be 
"  in  sympathy  with  one  another."  They  almost  know  one 
another's  thoughts ;  each  can  almost  guess  what  the  other  is 
going  to  say  next :  they  no  longer  require  to  explain  their 
respective  meanings  minutely ;  an  unfinished  sentence,  a 
word,  a  look,  conveys  a  whole  thesis  on  the  point  under  dis- 
cussion. They  are  reciprocally  charmed,  for  they  feel  them- 
selves to  be  on  an  intellectual  level  with  one  another ;  in  a 
phrase — to  recur — they  no  longer  represent  the  contrast  of 
six  and  two,  but  each  giving  to  and  taking  from  the  other, 
they  represent  at  the  end  of  the  conversation  the  uniform 
vital  force  of  four  each.  Mesmerism  is  an  acceleration  of 
this  process  by  an  effort  of  will ;  Telepathy  is  a  higher  devel- 
opment of  it.  And  in  Mesmerism  or  Telepathy  the  one 
mind  conveys  to  the  other,  to  be  acted  upon,  the  thoughts 
that  are  uppermost  at  the  moment  within  itself. 

In  the  almost  clairvoyant  experiences  of  Paul  and  Mah- 
moure,  this  had  occurred  to  a  high  degree,  and  had  been 
very  powerfully  assisted  by  the  coincidences  of  the  personal- 
ities of  Paul  and  Daphne  Preault,  united  as  they  seemed  to 
be  by  some  distant  tie  of  Creole  ancestry.  Mahmoure'  being 
powerfully  attracted  to,  and  acted  upon  by,  Paul,  there  was 
no  doubt  but  that  Daphne  would  possess  the  same  influence 
over  her ;  and,  following  the  natural  laws  of  attraction,  it  was 
not  surprising  that  her  spirit  should  seek  that  of  the  Prin- 
cess, living  as  the  latter  did  amid  associations  doubtless 
familiar  to  Paul,  and  being,  beyond  all,  the  soul  in  which 
Paul's  interest  was  principally  centred  in  Europe. 

People  who  "  see  ghosts  "  are  generally  looked  upon  either 
as  mystics  or  as  rather  weak-minded  subjects  by  the  rest  of 
the  community  ;  this  is  because  we  always  feel  a  certain  unea- 
siness in  the  presence  of  an  eccentricity.  If  that  eccentricity 
is  one  beyond  our  comprehension,  we  revere  its  author  ;  if  it 


MESMERISM.  93 

is  one  that  we  can  criticise  and  examine,  familiarity  breeds 
contempt,  and  we  despise  him.  Reverence  and  despite  are 
merely  developments  of  fear.  Ghost-seers  come  under  either 
the  first  or  the  second  category,  according  to  their  talkative- 
ness. The  uncommunicative  ghost-seer  is  feared — nay,  he 
is  thought  a  trifle  mad ;  the  communicative  ghost-seer,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  laughed  at,  and  considered  a  raconteur  or 
an  ass,  according  to  his  powers  of  eloquence.  Now,  follow- 
ing the  theory  of  Paul  du  Peyral,  a  ghost  is  nothing  more 
than  a  coincidence  of  condition  occurring  between  two  per- 
sons at  the  same  moment,  by  which  coincidence  the  illusion 
— or  rather  phenomenon — of  the  appearance  of  the  one  to 
the  other  is  produced. 

To  recur  to  the  doctrine  of  sympathy  established  between 
two  people  who  are  conversing  with  one  another : — At  a 
given  point,  maybe,  their  personalities  find  one  another  in 
absolute  or  perfect  coincidence.  The  result  of  this  is,  as  a 
rule,  love  :  courtship  is  a  continual  search  after  a  renewal  of 
those  conditions ;  marriage  a  more  or  less  successful  effort, 
as  the  case  may  be,  to  establish  a  new  sympathy  on  a  new 
plane. 

However,  to  return :  The  sight  of  another  person  is 
merely  the  effort  of  a  certain  excitement  on  the  visual  seg- 
ment of  one's  brain  ;  when  the  sympathy,  perfect,  absolute, 
of  which  we  have  spoken  has  been  established,  that  excite- 
ment becomes  a  very  strong  one.  Two  persons  look  into 
one  another's  eyes,  and  through  their  eyes  into  their  souls  ; 
the  impression  made  is  necessarily  very  forcibly  stamped  on 
the  memory,  and  it  is  not  so  much  an  impression  of  the 
outer  form  under  contemplation,  as  one  of  the  inner  soul 
that  shines  out  in  the  gaze.  Now  if,  at  any  future  time,  by 
reason  of  the  one  person  thinking  of  the  other  with  any 
strong  effort  of  cerebration,  by  a  rare  coincidence  that  other 
person  finds  himself  in  the  same  vital  condition — at  the  same 
numeral  of  personality,  in  the  same  state  of  sympathy  and 
degree  of  attraction — as  he  did  on  the  occasion  when  the 
sympathy  was  originally  established,  then,  the  conditions  of 


94  THE  M/A'C£SS  DAPHNE. 

the  mind  being  the  same,  the  same  impression  will  be  con- 
veyed by  the  optic  nerves  to  the  brain,  and  the  effect  is  pro- 
duced of  the  appearance  of  the  one  person  to  the  other, 
which,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  has  become  called  "  a 
ghost." 

It  is  rare  for  each  to  appear  to  the  other  at  the  same  time  ; 
the  coincidence  of  thought,  effort,  and  personal  condition  is 
too  remotely  possible  :  it  is  the  person  who  makes  the  effort 
who  either  sees  the  object  of  his  mental  strain,  or,  if  his 
thoughts  are  centred  upon  its  present  occupation,  appears  to 
that  object. 

And  so,  every  effort  of  thought  of  which  Paul  du  Peyral 
was  capable  being  concentrated  upon  the  woman  whom,  in 
the  body,  he  had  never  seen,  he  was  wont  to  call  up  her 
mental  picture  with  a  vividness  that  gave  to  her  spectre  all 
the  attributes  of  substantial  form ;  and  adopting  her  as  a 
subject  for  his  experiments,  which  chance,  coincidence — 
call  it  what  you  will — had  flung  in  his  way,  he  pursued  his 
investigations  with  all  the  devotion  of  a  savant,  and  at  the 
expense  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DAPHNE  AND    ERIC. 

THE  "  tempera  mutant ur  "  principle,  as  far  as  this  story  is 
concerned,  holds  good  in  Europe  as  it  does  in  America  and 
elsewhere ;  and  whilst  Paul  du  Peyral  and  Mahmoure  led 
their  separated  though  identical  lives  in  New  York,  time 
had  wrought  its  changes  in  the  Holland  Street  colony,  though 
that  time  was  measured  by  months  only,  and  not  by  longer 
periods.  Spring  had  arrived  and  was  growing  old  ;  already, 
at  intervals  of  a  week  or  so,  the  sun  shone  so  brightly  that 
the  shades  were  closed  on  the  sunny  sides  of  the  streets, 
giving  them  the  appearance  of  having  been  struck  blind 
with  astonishment  at  the  fine  weather,  after  the  fog  and  rain 
and  slush  of  the  metropolitan  merry  spring-time. 

In  Holland  Street,  grimy  persons  had  appeared,  and  had 
borne  thence  carefully  protected  canvases,  to  deposit  them 
for  approval  or  rejection  at  the  doors  of  Burlington  House  ; 
in  a  word,  "Show  Sunday"  had  come  and  gone,  and  hearts 
beat  high  with  hope  or  apprehension  ;  whilst  "  the  boys  " 
who  had  sent  in  their  Academy  pictures  rested  a  little  on 
their  oars, — or  rather  brushes, — and  awaited  the  official  in 
timation  of — what  ?  Most  of  our  personal  friends — if  we 
may  call  them  so — had  launched  an  argosy  on  the  sea  of 
public  appreciation ;  but  all  of  them  awaited  with  some 
anxiety  the  fate  of  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  picture,  "  Sunshine 
in  the  Fog,"  which  had  fulfilled  its  early  promise  of  excel- 
lence, and  was  regarded  as  the  chef-d 'mivre  of  the  colony. 

To  Gabriel  himself,  though  he  said  but  little  on  the  subject, 
the  acceptance  or  rejection  of  this  picture  by  the  hanging 
committee  meant  everything — a  large  word,  but  the  only 
one  which  properly  expresses  the  case.  Into  it  he  felt  he 

95 


96  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

had  put  the  very  best  work  of  which  he  was  capable ;  he 
knew  that  he  could  do  no  better,  and  that  if  this  were  "  found 
wanting  "  he  had  better  abandon  art  as  a  means  of  livelihood, 
once  and  for  all ;  and  this  reflection  occurring  often  to  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  wildest  rhapsodies  with  his  violin,  he 
would  drop  his  instrument  from  his  shoulder  and  sink  for 
hours  into  a  revery  on  the  Future — and  Maye.  She,  on  her 
side,  said  but  little  about  the  picture ;  but  the  Princess 
Daphne  was  an  angel  of  hope  to  him,  and  never  for  an  in- 
stant assumed  anything  on  the  possibility  of  the  rejection  of 
his  masterpiece,  but  urged  him  to  work  in  anticipation  of 
his  popularity  as  an  artist,  which  she  regarded  as  a  very 
proximate  certainty. 

"  There  will  be  a  great  demand,"  she  used  to  say  to  him  ; 
"  mind  the  supply  is  ready  to  meet  it ;  and,  for  heaven's 
sake,  don't  sell  your  old  rejected  trash  on  the  strength  of 
this  big  work  of  yours.  You  can  do  that  later,  when  your 
hold  on  the  public  is  strong  enough  to  defy  the  dangers  of 
dilution  with  inferior  work.  Remember,  Gabriel,  and  keep 
Maye's  happiness  in  your  mind  as  the  lodestar  of  your  ener- 
gies." 

Maye  herself  was  placidly  content  with  her  existence — or 
outwardly  so,  at  any  rate ;  deep  in  her  heart,  if  the  truth 
must  be  confessed,  lay  a  gnawing  agony  that  had  usurped  a 
place  there  ever  since  the  "  engagement "  of  Eric  Trevanion 
and  the  Princess  Daphne  had  been  announced.  Their 
liaison  had  been  published  to  the  colony  under  the  title  of  a 
betrothal,  though  it  was  as  impossible  to  get  anything  out 
of  Daphne  concerning  her  future  marriage  as  it  had  been 
to  extract  information  on  the  subject  of  her  past  history. 
Eric  practically  spent  all  his  time  with  her,  and  seemed  to 
have  abandoned  his  profession  of  flaneur  of  the  studios ; 
and  men  spoke  still  more  reverently  of  the  Princess  in  his 
presence,  standing  unconsciously  in  something  like  awe  of 
the  man  whom  Daphne  Preault  had  selected  as  her  future 
husband — if  not,  as  was  whispered,  as  her  present  lover — 
from  amid  the  army  of  aspirants. 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC. 


97 


He  seldom  touched  his  palette  or  spoilt  good  canvas  now- 
a-days.  They  had  been  but  an  occupation  for  idle  hours  at 
best,  and  now  his  occupation  was  Daphne ;  and,  as  he  had 
but  one  pleasure,  and  that  was  to  sit  with  her  whilst  she 
worked,  she  had  fitted  up  a  second  and  more  substantial 
writing-table  in  her  spacious  studio,  and  tried  to  make  him 
take  seriously  to  literature,  and  make  some  use  of  his 
undoubted  cleverness,  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  his 
very  exceptional  education. 

Unfortunately,  as  a  Htt'eratetir,  Eric  was  an  epigrammatist 
rather  than  a  word-painter,  and  he  seldom  got  beyond  titles 
of  striking  and  remarkable  originality,  for  essays,  which, 
when  they  were  written,  took  the  form  of  a  collection  of 
aphorisms,  spicules  of  epigram  embedded  in  a  protoplasm 
of  commonplace,  the  whole  vivifying  a  spongy  mass  which 
absorbed  the  ideas  of  other  people  rather  than  originated 
new  ones  of  its  own.  There  are  many  writers — for  the 
most  part  young  ones — in  the  present  day  to  whom  this 
description  applies,  and  publishers  look  askant  upon  works 
which  are  gems  of  literary  composition  rather  than  of  imag- 
inative construction.  And  Eric's  masterpieces  :  "  An  Indigo 
Inspiration  by  a  Blue  Bard  "  (written  in  a  moment  of  depres- 
sion) ;  his  "  Petrifaction  of  Passion,  a  Pathological  Prob- 
lem "  (written  when  his  vocabulary  of  eulogy  of  the  Princess 
had  suddenly  dried  up)  ;  and  several  similarly  entitled  effu- 
sions reposed  peacefully  in  the  pigeon-hole  that  he  described 
as  the  "  Walhalla  of  Rejected  Addresses,"  and  over  which 
he  had  inscribed  on  a  strip  of  gummed  label,  "  Lasciate  ogni 
speranza,  voi  ch*  entrate /" — "Abandon  hope  all  ye  who  enter 
here  ! " 

Still,  the  ill  luck  of  his  manuscripts  caused  him  no  pity 
for  himself,  only  contempt  for  them.  The  allowance  made 
to  him  by  his  father  was  an  ample  one,  and  any  caprices  he 
might  have  had  he  might  very  well  have  satisfied  ;  but  as  it 
was,  he  had  but  one  thought  in  life — Daphne  !  To  be  by 
her  side,  to  hold  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  all  over  again 
how  he  loved  her — that  was  all  he  wanted  ;  and  as  Daphne 
7 


98  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

was  of  a  practically  identical  opinion,  the  studio  in  Holland 
Street  was  certainly  one  of  the  happiest  places  in  the  world. 

Eric  Trevanion  had  perhaps  but  one  thorn  in  the  flesh,  and 
that  was  Clytemnestra,  the  coloured  woman,  who  jealously 
guarded  her  mistress'  lightest  actions,  and  strenuously  ob- 
jected to  Eric,  not  so  much  on  the  ground  of  his  being  a  new 
master  for  herself,  as  on  the  ground  that  he  stood  in  quasi- 
authority  over  her  mistress.  Clytie  had  no  moral  scruples 
of  any  kind,  but,  with  the  cunning  of  her  race,  with  that 
devotion  of  self  and  that  selfishness  for  others  that  char- 
acterizes the  darkie,  she  was  convinced  that  her  mission 
in  life  was  to  bring  about  the  marriage  of  the  Princess 
Daphne  and  Paul  du  Peyral,  whom,  though  she  had  never 
seen,  of  course  she  knew  all  about. 

Clytie  had  been  owned  by  Victor  Preault,  his  father  had 
owned  her  father,  his  grandfather  her  grandfather;  gener- 
ation after  generation  of  master  and  slave  had  looked  after 
one  another,  and  the  ideas  of  freedom,  and  a  vote,  and  the 
College  of  Surgeons  were,  to  Clytie,  iconoclastic  institutions 
which  she  strenuously  objected  to  take  in  place  of  the  com- 
panionship of  Daphne,  her  red  bandanna  head-gear,  and  her 
own  mnemonic  storehouse  of  Voodoo  pharmaceutical  knowl- 
edge. 

Clytie's  mind  was  a  magazine  of  Creole  legendary  history 
and  historic  legend.  As  long  as  she  could  remember, 
Daphne  had  been  accustomed  to  listen  almost  unconsciously, 
when  Clytie  was  in  the  vicinity,  to  stories  of  the  bayous  and 
swamps  of  Louisiana,  of  the  early  settlers  of  New  Orleans, 
of  D'Iberville,  of  Bienville,  of  the  Chevalier  Le  Blond  de  la 
Tour,  of  Indian  raids,  and  of  massacres  by  the  Chickasaws, 
the  Choctaws,  and  the  Natchez.  Anon  her  tales  would  be  of 
the  Spanish  rule  of  1760  to  1770,  of  the  patriot  merchants 
such  as  Milhet,  d'Abbadie,  and  Preault,  of  the  landing  of 
Don  Antonio  de  Ulloa,  and,  later'of  the  Irish  Spaniard,  Don 
Alexander  O'Reilly,  "  Cruel  O'Reilly  "  as  he  was  still  called 
in  Louisianian  folk-lore,  of  de  Unzaga,  of  de  Galvez ;  in  a 
word,  Clytie  could  have  dictated  a  complete  Creole  history, 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  99 

correct  in  its  chronology,  and  fictitious  only  in  its  facts. 
But  it  was  as  the  chronicler,  the  trouvere  of  the  Preault 
family,  to  an  ancestor  of  which  an  ancestor  of  hers  had  been 
sold  in  all  his  picturesque  insufficiency  of  costume,  that  Clyde 
came  out  strong.  Clytie  fondly  imagined  that,  the  idol  she 
wore  around  her  neck  had  originally  belonged  to  this  ances- 
tor— it  was  a  shapelessly  human  affair,  which  had  done  duty 
in  turn  for  correct  and  lifelike  representations  of  Voodoo,  of 
Obi,  of  Gitche-Manito,  of  the  Madonna,  of  Martin  Luther,  of 
the  Saviour,  and  of  Jefferson  Davis — and  when  she  lectured 
Daphne  on  her  Creole  ancestry,  she  was  wont  to  refer  to 
said  idol,  whose  existence  at  the  time  said  events  did  not 
take  place  was,  to  her,  conclusive  evidence  of  their  historical 
accuracy  :  and  it  was  upon  one  of  these  family  legends,  well 
known  among  all  the  branches  of  the  Preault  family,  that 
she  based  her  efforts  to  induce  Daphne  to  reconsider  her 
contemptuous  refusal  of  Paul  du  Peyral. 

Clyde's  legend  of  the  Preault  and  du  Peyral  families  was 
a  remarkable  chronicle,  based  on  a  good  deal  of  historic  fact, 
and  embroidered  with  a  good  deal  of  historic  fiction.  I  pre- 
fer, therefore,  to  tell  the  story  in  my  own  words,  shorn  of 
much  ornamental  eloquence,  but  enriched  with  a  certain 
amount  of  careful  research  among  the  archives  of  the  city  of 
New  Orleans.  In  the  year  1718,  Bienville  had  succeeded 
Epinay  as  Governor  of  Louisiana,  and  affairs  in  the  colony 
were  governed  principally  in  conformity  to  the  require- 
ments of  John  Law's  "  Mississippi  Company"  — the  South- 
Sea  Bubble  that  was  to  explode  with  such  terrific  violence 
two  years  later.  Among  the  800  emigrants  that  landed  at 
Dauphine  Island  on  the  25th  of  August,  1718,  was  one 
Hippolyte  du  Peyral,  an  engineer,  who  formed  one  of  the 
little  band  of  pioneers  who  might  have  been  seen  in  1720, 
headed  by  the  Sieur  Le  Blond  de  la  Tour,  "  garbed  as  a 
knight  of  St.  Louis,  modified  as  might  be  by  the  exigencies 
of  the  frontier, "  marking  off  streets  and  lots — planning,  in  a 
word,  the  city  of  New  Orleans. 

There  are  doubtless   many  of  my  readers  to  whom  New 


IOO  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Orleans  would  be  an  undiscovered  country  were  it  not  for 
the  Abbe  Pre'vost  and  "  Manon  Lescaut.  "  I  refer  to  this 
work  because,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  colony  was  then 
in  the  condition  described  by  Prevost — i.e.,  in  what  might  be 
called  a  state  of  troglodytish  simplicity  as  regards  its  social 
institutions,  and  the  female  society  of  New  Orleans  was  com- 
posed, exception  being  made  in  favour  of  the  wives  of  a  few 
of  the  officials,  and  those  of  the  French  and  Canadian  set- 
tlers, of  ladies  who  had  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well,  if  not 
too  promiscuously,  in  France,  and  had,  after  going  through 
a  term  of  probation  at  the  Salpetriere  and  St.  Lazare,  been 
shipped  off  by  a  paternal  government  to  supply  the  rugged 
colonists  with  the  gentle  influences  and  reproductive  advan- 
tages which  are  the  prerogatives  of  the  beau  sexe.  Unless 
these  ladies  are  traduced  by  their  historian,  they  appear  to 
have  drunk,  gambled,  and  fought  on  terms  of  perfect  equal- 
ity with  their  lords  and  masters,  or,  to  put  it  tersely,  their 
proprietors.  But  among  them,  a  damsel  of  a  finer  mould 
than  the  generality  fell  to  the  lot  of  Hippolyte  du  Peyral, 
and  to  him  was  born,  within  a  pistol-shot  of  the  ancient  and 
modern  Place  d'Armes,  a  beautiful  daughter.  This  child 
was  some  six  or  seven  years  old  when  the  gentle  Ursuline 
Sisters  established  their  convent  and  hospital  on  what  was 
then  called  Arsenal  Street;  and  her  mother  having  suc- 
cumbed to  the  ravages  of  the  colonial  climate  and  social 
laxity,  du  Peyral  was  glad  enough  to  find  there  an  asylum 
where  the  child  would  be  secure  from  the  influences  of  the 
almost  primeval  condition  of  affairs  in  the  young  city,  no 
less  than  from  the  periodical  raids  of  Chickasaws  and 
Natchez. 

In  the  winter  of  1727-28 — I  quote  from  the  pages  of  the 
Creole  historian,  G.  W.  Cable — a  crowning  benefit  was 
reached.  On  the  Levee,  jus~t  in  front  of  the  Place  d'Armes, 
the  motley  public  of  the  wild  town  was  gathered  to  see  a 
goodly  sight.  A  ship  had  come  across  the  sea  and  up  the 
river,  with  the  most  precious  of  all  possible  earthly  cargoes. 

She  had  tied  up  against  the  grassy,  willow-planted  bank, 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  IOI 

and  there  were  coming  ashore,  and  grouping  together  in  the 
Place  d'Armes,  under  escort  of  the  Ursuline  nuns,  a  good 
threescore,  not  of  houseless  girls  from  the  streets  of  Paris, 
as  heretofore,  but  of  maidens  from  the  hearthstones  of 
France,  to  be  disposed  of,  under  the  discretion  of  the  nuns,  in 
marriage.  And  then  there  were  brought  ashore,  and  were 
set  down  in  the  rank  grass,  many  small,  stout  chests  of 
clothing.  There  was  a  trunk  for  each  maiden,  and  a  maiden 
for  each  trunk,  and  both  maidens  and  trunks  were  the  gifts 
of  the  king.  Similar  companies  came  in  subsequent  years, 
and  the  girls  with  trunks  were  long  known  in  the  traditions 
of  their  colonial  descendants  by  the  honourable  distinction 
of  the  "filles  a  la  cassette" — the  casket  girls. 

Hippolyte  du  Peyral  was  a  substantial  citizen,  standing 
high  in  the  good  graces  of  the  pious  sisters,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  first  to  take  to  his  home  among  the  new  plantations  of 
Louisiana,  a  gentle,  sweet-tempered  helpmate,  his  lawful 
wife,  a  healthy  Provengale  of  some  twenty  summers.  This 
good  couple  lived  to  an  equally  good  old  age,  and  like  the 
worthies  of  nursery  romance,  died  regretted  by  all  who  knew 
them,  leaving  a  family  of  stalwart  young  colonials  who 
founded  the  du  Peyral  family,  which  had  accordingly  flour- 
ished in  the  state  until  war,  fever,  transferrence  from  one 
government  to  another,  and  other  disturbing  influences  had 
dwindled  the  old  stock  down  to  concentration  in  the  person 
of  M.  Paul  du  Peyral.  the  protege  and  heir  of  old  Preault  of 
Baton  Rouge.  Thus,  after  a  lapse  of  a  century  and  a  half, 
the  parent  stock  had  been  thrown  together  again  by  chance ; 
for  the  nameless  daughter  of  Hippolyte  du  Peyral,  having 
arrived  at  years  of  indiscretion,  had  run  away  from  the  con- 
vent and  married  a  handsome,  wild  pioneer,  by  name 
Preault,  and  had  scattered  through  the  state  a  small  but  ex- 
clusively Creole  race  of  Preaults  ;  a  family  not,  alas  !  without 
its  place  in  the  scandalous  history  of  Louisiana,  for  the  hered- 
itary taint  seemed  to  be  fatally  constant,  and  ever  and  anon 
the  blood  of  the  girl  who  had  enslaved  the  fancy  of 
Hippolyte  du  Peyral  would  crop  out,  and  produce  a  woman 


102  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

of  gorgeous  meridional  beauty  and  dazzling  personality, 
half-tame  and  half-savage,  a  type  that  might  be  seen  in  its 
perfect  development  in  Daphne  Pre'ault,  the  exile,  the  Prin- 
cess of  the  Holland  Street  colony,  in  a  word,  the  pure- 
blooded  Bohemian. 

Now,  the  historic  outlines  and  the  romantic  details  of  this 
family  history  were  cherished  with  true  negro  persistency  by 
Clytemnestra,  the  ex-bondwoman  ;  and  the  dream  of  her 
darkie  soul  was  to  see  the  old  stock  of  Hippolyte  du  Peyral 
reunited  in  the  persons  of  Paul  and  the  Princess  Daphne, 
and  therefore,  when  the  latter  indignantly  scorned  the  con- 
dititions  of  her  second  cousin's  will,  in  refusing  to  marry 
Paul,  Clyde  held  that  she  was  flying  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence, and  valourously  invoked  the  assistance  of  her  multi- 
fold deity  in  jade,  to  bring  about  this  consummation,  to  her 
so  devoutly  to  be  wished  for. 

I  have  dealt  with  this  family  history  at  some  length 
because  it  accounts  in  a  great  measure  for  the  sympathy — in 
a  way,  a  tie  of  blood — that  existed  between  these  two  strong 
Creole  personalities,  separated  from  one  another  though 
they  were,  by  half  a  hemisphere ;  a  sympathy  which  led  in 
so  large  a  degree  to  the  denouement  of  this  veracious  nar- 
rative. It  is  hardly  surprising,  therefore,  that  to  Clyde,  from 
whom  no  secret  of  her  mistress'  life  was  concealed,  the  posi- 
tion of  Eric  in  the  Holland  Street  manage  of  the  Princess 
Daphne  was  a  never-failing  source  of  annoyance ;  an  annoy- 
ance that  she  dared  not  openly  show  to  the  principals  in  this 
drama,  but  which  made  itself  felt  continually,  and  especially 
to  Eric,  who,  early  in  the  game,  rechristened  Clytie,  ';  Ones- 
ima,  his  thorn  in  the  flesh." 

Without  risking  the  reception  of  a  frown  from  Daphne^ 
which  though  theoretically  less  baleful,  was  practically  far 
more  awful  to  Clytie,  than  the  curse  of  Obi  or  the  incanta- 
tion of  Voodoo,  this  antagonism  caused  itself  to  be  very  dis- 
tinctly perceived  on  such  occasions  as  she  found  it  necessary 
in  the  pursuit  of  her  professional  avocations  to  enter  his 
presence,  as,  for  instance,  when  she  would  come  in  to  lay 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  103 

lea  at  five  o'clock ;  and  then  a  vague  feeling  of  easiness 
would  come  over  Eric  as  he  sat  at  his  writing-table,  from 
whence  he  could  watch  the  Princess  at  her  work.  Under- 
lying all  Daphne's  love  for  him,  his  super-sensitive  nature 
fancied  that  there  existed  a  feeling  of  superiority  that  only 
wanted  one  earthly  touch  to  make  it  contempt;  and  this 
was  a  sensation  he  had  never  been  able  entirely  to  get  over : 
it  would  impress  him  with  a  vague  feeling  of  discontent  in 
little  scenes  such  as  the  following,  which  were  of  pretty  con- 
stant recurrence. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  Eric  had  been  enjoying  himself 
vastly,  writing  an  essay — high-flown,  satirical,  paradoxical — 
entitled,  "  The  Praise  of  Publishers,  by  one  of  their  Vic- 
tims." The  light  was  nearly  gone,  and  Daphne  sat  in  front 
of  her  easel  painting  somewhat  abstractedly,  playing,  rather, 
with  some  of  the  details  of  her  nearly  finished  picture.  Eric 
had  just  concluded  his  essay  with  the  paraphrase,  "  He 
who  writes  with  nought  to  say,  finds  his  labour  thrown 
away,"  and,  Clyde  having  set  the  tea-things  with  something 
like  aggression  of  manner,  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked 
at  the  Princess.  She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  looking 
lazy  and  satisfied  with  her  work,  now  and  then  making  a 
little  dab  for  some  particular  point,  until  the  light,  as  far  as 
painting  was  concerned,  had  died  out.  Then  she  laid  down 
her  palette  and  brushes,  stretched  her  toes  out  in  front  of 
her,  clasped  her  hands  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  rested 
so,  in  contemplation  of  the  canvas. 

That  silence  fell  which  seems  to  envelop  every  death,  even 
that  of  the  daylight.  No  sound  disturbs  the  stillness  of 
the  studio  till  the  fire  stumbles  into  a  frejh  fantasy  of  fallen 
cinders,  the  ashes  burst  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  "new- 
born night  begins  its  little  life." 

The  day  has  risen  and  lived  its  life,  it  fades  and  dies,  and 
as  it  dies  there  is  a  moment  of  stillness  that  proclaims  its 
death:  another  life  takes  its  place — "  Le  Jour  est  mort ;  vive 
laNuitl" 

Daphne  yawns,  stretches  her  long  arms  again,  and  rising, 


104  TIIE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

approaches  the  fire,  where  she  throws  herself  into  the  big 
lounge  as  she  did  on  the  night  that  she  surrendered  herself 
to  Eric,  and  by  degrees  settles  herself  into  absolute  comfort. 
Eric  has  been  so  quiet  that  she  has  almost  forgotten  his  ex- 
istence, when  suddenly  he  startles  her — if  so  placid  a  person 
as  the  Princess  Daphne  can  ever  be  said  to  be  startled — by 
bounding  from  his  seat  with  an  exclamation  that  partakes 
of  the  dual  natures  of  a  roar  and  a  snort,  and  paces  up  and 
down  the  floor,  until  Daphne,  without  looking  at  him, 
remarks : 

"Well!  what  are  you  playing  at  Polar  bear  in  a  cage 
for  ?  " 

"  I  swear  !  "  he  exclaims  ("  Don't !  "  says  she).  "  I 
swear,"  he  continues,  "  I'll  never  write  another  line,  and  I'll 
burn  every  paper  that  I've  ever  slung  ink  upon  !  "  and  he 
comes  to  the  fire  and  takes  up  his  position  before  herr  in  the 
attitude  peculiar  to  and  favoured  by  the  Englishman  of  patri- 
otic instinct. 

Hard  as  steel,  and  with  a  little  playful  sneer,  come  the 
words  from  Daphne's  lips  : 

"Why  this  sudden  philanthropy  ?  Why  heap  these  bless- 
ings on  the  heads  of  undeserving  publishers  ?  Pause ! 
reflect !  gracious  lord  of  mine,  ere  you  inflict  such  priva- 
tion on  helpless  humanity — on  the  world  that  hungers  for 
the  glorious  fruit  of  your  transcendent  genius,  and  that  has 
deserved  no  such  salutary  punishment  at  your  hands.  Let 
me  plead  for  the  world !  Oh,  write  one  more  Assyrian 
farce,  one  more  essay  '  On  the  Morals  and  Pathology  of 
the  non-existent  races  of  Central  America,'  before  the  fiat 
goes  forth  and  the  doom  is  sealed  !  "  And  she  clasps  her 
hands  as  if  in  prayer,  as,  with  a  fascinating  moue  of  mock 
seriousness,  she  sinks  on  her  knees  from  the  big  lounge, 
before  him. 

Eric  looked  down  at  her.  He  made  no  attempt  to  hide 
the  pain  her  levity  caused  him.  She  saw  it,  and  her  hands 
fell,  as  she  remained  seated  on  the  bear-skin  rug,  leaning 
against  the  sofa  behind  her. 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  1 05 

"  I'm  blue — unhappy — disappointed,"  he  said  ;  "  why  do 
you  sneer  at  instead  of  encouraging  me  ? " 

"  Because  you  live  in  the  nineteenth  century  and  your 
books  are  those  of  the  monks  of  the  middle  ages.  Your 
standard  works  might  be  entitled  '  Auctorum  ignotorum 
omnia  qua  non  supersunt' — '  The  forgotten  works  of  unknown 
authors  ! '  and  your  romances  are  simply  scholarly  epitomes 
of  all  that  has  been  said  by  previous  writers  on  subjects  no 
one  cares  anything  about.  There  is  no  boy  who  has  just 
left  college  who  could  not  do  what  you  do ;  you  write  things 
that  all  scholars  know  as  well  as  you,  whilst  as  for  the 
rest  of  your  readers,  you  either  bore  or  confuse  them. 
Your  writings,  man  cher,  are  the  apotheosis  of  the  common- 
'  place." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  what  you  want  me  to  write  is  simply 
bald  commonplace." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  don't  see  why  you  must  necessarily  jump 
from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  In  doing  that  you  admit 
that  you  have  neither  ability  to  originate  nor  industry  to 
supply  a  demand." 

"  There  you  go  again  !  You  always  stand  up  for  the 
purely  meretricious." 

"My  dear  boy,  up  to  a  certain  point  everything  is  mere- 
tricious. Why  do  you  suppose  I  sold  my  first  pictures  ? 
Gabriel  Hawleiglvs  early  work  was  infinitely  superior  to 
mine,  but  mine  sold,  and  his  did  not.  Why  ?  Because  I 
am  a  beautiful  woman,  and  painted  my  own  portrait  indi- 
rectly into  everything,  and  with  that,  I  painted  subjects 
which  were  described  as  '  daring '  by  unsuccessful  artists 
disguised  as  critics.  In  this  way,  an  interest  entirely  apart 
from  the  work  sold  my  prentice  efforts.  What  you  have  to 
do  is  to  prove  yourself  personally  superior — as  you  undoubt- 
edly are — to  mere  acquirements/' 

"  In  a  phrase,  you  would  have  me  write  down  to  the  mor- 
bid craving  for  sensation  that  characterizes  the  literary  taste 
of  to-day." 

"  Nonsense  !     Genius   is  universal,  and  requires  no  die- 


IO6  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

tionary  of  its  own.  I  tell  you  to  forsake  the  display  of 
erudition,  and  cultivate  imagination.  If  I  hadn't  wit  enough 
to  give  the  public  what  it  wants,  and  to  give  it  art  as  well,  I 
should  be  admitting  that  I  am  like  every  unsuccessful  strug- 
gler  who  gives  them  pure  talent — which  is  a  drug  in  the 
market.  If  I  could  write  I  would  make  a  success,  for  the 
reason  that  I  should  conceal  art  so  well  that  those  who  can- 
not appreciate  it  would  not  find  it.  A  fine  lady  can  wear 
gingham  and  homespun,  and  be  called  'chic';  but  Clyde 
couldn't  wear  my  terra-cotta  wrapper.  Apply  this  to  your 
erudition.  Gild  your  pill,  tres  cher ;  gild  your  pill !  " 

"  Daphne,  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  know — that  you 
understand — what  you  are  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  absolutely  sensible  of  my  own  ignorance,  but 
— I  live  in  this  nineteenth  century  of  ours,  and  I  desire  to 
live  comfortably — luxuriously — and  to  be  '  somebody  '  into  the 
bargain.  My  plane  is  immeasurably  below  yours,  but  whilst 
you  cannot  look  down  on  me — though  you  are  over  my  head 
— I  can  look  up  to  you  and  appreciate  you.  I  live  on  earth, 
you  live  in  the  clouds,  and  your  work  is  no  use  there. 
You  haven't  yet  reached  Heaven,  so  you  can't  be  sure  that 
your  works  would  sell  there ;  and  with  the  present  moral 
obliquity  that  exists  with  regard  to  international  copyright, 
though  you  might  be  celebrated,  you  would  probably  reap 
no  advantage  from  your  celebrity  beyond  a  pair  of  first-qual- 
ity wings  and  a  more  than  ordinarily  curly  trumpet." 

He  turned  away  almost  petulantly. 

"  What  have  I  done,"  said  he,  "  that  you  should  talk  to 
me  like  this  ?  I'm  a  fool — a  sensitive  fool — I  know;  but, 
by  Jupiter,  you  know  exactly  where  to  hit,  and  you  hit 
hard." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  You  have 
made  me  love  you,  darling ,  that's  all."  And  she  went  to 
him,  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  pressing  him 
closer,  closer  to  her  heart,  until  her  head  sank  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  her  voice  died  away  to  a  whisper  in  his  ear, 
that  she  caressed  softly  with  her  lips. 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  IOJ 

Eric  was  deeply — obstinately — wounded,  and  he  held  her 
in  a  loose,  distracted  embrace.  He  was  thinking  so  much 
of  himself  and  of  his  own  woes,  and  it  hurt  him  beyond 
bearing  that  she  did  not  worship  him  blindly — uncritically. 

"  Suppose,"  she  went  on,  "  you  were  not  rich  enough  to 
be  independent  of  your  work.  Would  it  be  right  to  throw 
away  the  talent  you  have,  on  work  that  is  gratifying  only  to 
yourself  ?  Be  sure,  your  want  of  success  lies  in  yourself, 
not  in  other  people.  The  cant  phrase,  'writing  above  the 
heads  of  the  herd,'  is  all  rubbish.  Fame  is  the  justification 
of  Talent ;  strive  after  it,  buy  it  at  any  cost.  Oh,  I  know 
the  difference  between  Fame  and  Notoriety,  and  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  gain  the  latter  than  the  former.  But  to  be 
heard,  to  be  listened  to,  is  the  first  consideration  ;  make 
your  crowd  listen  to  you,  and  when  you  have  got  them  in 
your  grasp,  give  them  what  you  like  ;  but  spare  no  means, 
however  false  they  may  seem  to  you,  to  get  them  there." 

"  But,  sweetheart,  you  are  arguing  that  Art  should  acqui- 
esce in  its  own  suppression." 

"  No — I  argue  that  art  should  give  you  the  superior  force 
to  conquer  your  tendency  to  sacrifice  everything  to  it. 
Don't  think  I  am  cruel  when  I  hurt  you  like  this — I  am  so 
proud  of  you,  and  of  your  talents.  Oh,  love,  I  must  see 
you  rise  above  your  disappointments.  You  are  satisfied  to 
know  your  own  worth  ;  /shall  never  be  satisfied  until  the 
world  acknowledges  k.  Forgive  me,  sweetheart,  if  I  seem 
sordid  and  mercenary  for  your  sake." 

Though  Eric  adored  Daphne,  there  was  always  this  grain 
of  worldly  wisdom  in  her  that  jarred  upon  him ;  it  was 
indefinable,  but  intense.  But  while  it  was  repugnant  to  him, 
he  was  too  reasonable  not  to  acknowledge  that  in  much  of 
it  she  was  right.  It  was  almost  humiliating  to  realize  that 
this  woman,  who  was  only  educated  up  to  the  ordinary  fem- 
inine standpoint,  could  sound  blindly,  unthinkingly — with  a 
rush,  as  it  were — the  depths  of  human  nature,  whilst  he,  with 
all  his  scientific  and  classic  lore,  took  ten  times  as  long  to 
arrive  anywhere  near  the  same  point.  It  came  out  strongly 


108  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

in  her  pictures.  With  all  her  profound  artistic  talent,  she 
knew  how  to  leaven  the  excellence  of  her  work  with  a  some- 
thing that  arrested  the  eye,  with  details  of  human  nature 
which,  though  admirably  executed,  he  still  felt  to  be  essen- 
tially meretricious.  The  word  was  his  nightmare  ;  it  was  her 
bank-account. 

It  was  irritating  to  him  to  argue  with  this  woman,  who, 
like  all  self-supporting  workers,  had  a  confidence  in  her  own 
efforts  which,  being  based  on  practical  experience,  was 
unanswerable.  He  was  forced  to  admit  that  her  instinct  was 
unerring,  and  that,  in  spite  of  her  sordid  expressions,  she  was 
inherently  artistic ;  she  could  produce  with  a  touch  effects 
that,  in  others,  demanded  hours  of  labor.  And  above  all, 
she  worshipped  him,  and  he  knew  it ;  he  was  her  god,  and 
though  she  strove  often  to  hide  the  fact,  she  was  mentally  on 
her  knees  before  him,  adoring  him  wildly,  and  more  appre- 
ciatively than  any  milk-and-water  maiden  who  might  have 
flattered  him  more  by  listening  to  and  memorizing  his  incom- 
prehensible poems,  effusions  which  he  loved  to  garb  in  the 
jargon  of  the  unintelligible.  She  was  of  that  type  of  woman 
who  makes  a  man  what  he  is.  For  what  ?  That  he  may 
straightway  go  from  her  to  fling  himself  at  the  feet  of  some 
pretty  specimen  of  puerile  femininity,  and  in  the  enjoyment 
of  its  inane  worship,  wonder  how  he  could  so  long  have 
endured  the  rather  trying  criticisms  of  a  woman  whose  fibre, 
though  passionate  and  maddening, "  was  somewhat  coarse — of 
a  woman  not  fit  to  enter  the  same  room  with  his  Colinette — 
his  Colinette,  so  pure,  so  holy,  so — "  bah !  etcetera !  etcet- 
era !  etcetera ! 

'Tis  a  weird  world,  my  masters  ! 

But  Eric  had  not  yet  found  his  Colinette.  He  was  enthralled 
by  a  personality  stronger  by  far  than  his  own,  in  all  save 
that  she  adored  him  ;  he  was  content  to  live  with  only  one 
thought  in  his  mind — Daphne  !  Daphne  ! — and  had  anyone 
told  him  that  the  time  might  come  when  he  would  tire  of  the 
electric  light,  and  seek  the  comparative  gloom  of  the  unex- 
hausting  ozokerit,  he  would  have  regarded  the  prophet  with 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  \ 09 

a  contemptuous  wonder,  and  would  have  returned  to  the  daz- 
zling fascinations  of  the  gorgeous  Creole  with  something  like 
pity  in  his  heart  for  the  inexperienced  philosopher  "  who  had 
evidently  never  loved" 

Certainly  nothing  of  this  could  have  been  foreshadowed 
by  anyone  who  saw  Eric  Trevanion  take  Daphne  in  his 
arms,  at  the  end  of  the  conversation  I  have  recorded  above, 
and  lose  consciousness  of  the  whole  world  in  the  thought  that 
this  matchless  woman  was  his,  and  his  alone ;  and  as  usual, 
they  parted  happier  than  ever  in  their  fool's  paradise  of 
varied  sensations.  It  is  probable  that  a  man  of  Trevanion's 
character  would  never  have  been  chained  as  he  was,  if  the 
course  of  his  love  had  run  perfectly  smooth ;  and  it  was  per- 
haps Daphne's  art  of  criticising  and  correcting  him  that 
made  her  tenderness  so  infinitely  more  precious  to  him  than 
it  would  otherwise  have  been.  An  American  writer — Edgar 
Saltus — has  said  very  justly,  "  The  secret  of  never  displeas- 
ing is  the  art  of  mediocrity ;  "  and  certainly  one  might  wan- 
der for  a  lifetime  amid  the  labyrinth  of  attribute  before 
selecting  for  Daphne  Preault  the  adjective  "  mediocre."  She 
was  grand,  intoxicating,  sublime,  and  infinitely  soft ;  but 
never  "  affectionate."  The  word  "  affectionate  "  is  too  fre- 
quently a  synonym — an  euphemism — for  "  indifferent  "  ;  and 
Eric  was  Daphne's  very  soul,  her  only  thought,  her  unique 
religion.  And  he  left  her  to-day  to  go  to  some  dinner-party 
or  other,  more  bound  to  him,  soul  to  soul,  forever ;  for  the 
instinct  of  maternity  that  unconsciously  mingles  itself  with 
love  in  every  woman's  heart  told  her  that  this  man  was  des- 
tined to  be — nay,  already  was — a  thing  of  her  own  creation. 
After  dinner  she  went  to  his  writing-table  and  spent  a  couple 
of  hours  with  his  impractical,  high-flown  manuscripts.  He 
was  a  Quixote  of  literature  ;  his  essays  were  gems  ;  not  the 
diamonds,  the  rubies,  the  sapphires  eagerly  bought  by  the 
public  who  understand  such  things,  but  the  cameos,  the 
avanturines,  the  labradorites,  and  chrysoberyls  of  language, 
infinitely  dearer  than  diamonds  to  the  collector  and  connois- 
seur, but  in  no  wise  understood  or  appreciated  by  the  people. 


I IO  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE 

Whilst  she  was  thus  occupied,  a  thought  struck  her :  she 
was  reading  an  essay  of  his  on  the  social  customs  of  the 
Mayas  of  Yucatan,  as  contrasted  with  those  of  the  people  of 
Atlantis  ;  an  ingenious  dissertation  in  which  two  people  per- 
haps in  the  whole  world — Dr.  Le  Plongeon  and  Ignatius 
Donnelly — would  have  revelled.  She  took  up  Eric's  pen 
and  rewrote  the  entire  thing,  discarding  nothing  of  his, 
but  adding  a  quantity  of  her  own,  until  she  had  practically 
produced  an  essay  on  the  Aztecs  of  the  Parisian  Boulevards 
and  the  Regent  Street  and  the  Piccadilly  of  the  capital  of 
Atlantis  ;  and  in  its  new  and  almost  sacrilegious  form,  she 
posted  it  to  the  editor  of  the  leading  monthly  magazine 
of  the  English-speaking  world.  This  done,  the  Princess 
Daphne,  though  as  yet  it  was  early,  went  to  bed. 

Daphne  Preault  was  a  physically  perfect  woman.  She  had 
read  of  heroines  of  novels  who  took  chloral,  and  she  knew 
weak-minded  women  whose  prayers  for  rest,  on  going  to  bed, 
took  the  practical  form  of  bromide  of  potassium.  To  the 
Princess  these  things  were  the  romance  of  the  Pharmaco- 
poeia. Having  wrapped  her  exquisite  body  in  the  clinging 
silks  of  her  night  attire,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  falling  asleep 
almost  the  instant  that  her  head  touched  the  pillow  ;  and  with 
the  regularity  of  clock-work,  precisely  eight  hours  afterward, 
she  made  one  bound  from  her  hardly  tumbled  bed-clothes  in- 
to her  bath.  Thus,  at  something  before  six  o'clock  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  the  Princess  surprised  Clytie  by  stepping 
into  the  studio,  where  the  spring-morning  rays  had  just 
acquired  sufficient  strength  to  be  properly  called  the  light  of 
day. 

Swathed  in  her  loose  morning-wrapper,  she  was  carefully 
cleaning  and  polishing  her  palette,  when  suddenly  a  strange, 
faint  sensation  seemed  to  travel  all  over  her,  and  a  strong 
shudder  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  grasped  her 
easel  to  prevent  herself  from  falling  ;  everything  seemed 
black  around  her,  and  when  the  momentary  mist  had  cleared 
away,  everything  seemed  changed. 

Was  it  herself  or  the  studio  ?     She  touched  her  hair,  and 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  \  \  \ 

it  seemed  as  if  she  were  touching  the  hair  of  another  woman  : 
in  an  agony  of  terror,  as  if  to  identify  herself,  she  staggered 
to  the  looking-glass ;  yes — there  she  was — the  same  hot 
black  hair  and  Southern  eyes  ;  but  something  seemed  altered  ; 
another  soul  seemed  reflected  from  the  eyes  in  the  mirror, 
and,  looking  round,  the  very  furniture  seemed  unfamiliar, 
though  she  recognized  it  all.  Good  God  !  was  she  going 
mad  ?  Was  she  still  herself  ?  She  even  went  to  her  writing- 
table  and  took  up  some  of  the  letters  that  lay  thereon.  She 
read,  half-aloud,  her  name  and  address  on  one  of  them,  and 
— oh  horrible  ! — it  seemed,  in  some  weird  way,  strange  to 
her.  Then  her  eyes  fell  on  Eric's  table,  just  as  she  had  left 
it  the  night  before,  and  in  her  agony  she  cried  aloud, 
'*  Eric  !— Eric  !  " 

"  Eric  ! " 

Clytie,  hearing  the  cry,  rushed  in,  to  find  her  mistress 
lying  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  floor  of  the  studio. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  New  York,  and  at 
that  instant  of  time,  Paul  du  Peyral  roused  Mahmoure  di 
Zulueta  from  her  mesmeric  trance. 

"  Sho,  honey  !  Sho,  there  !  What  is  it,  chile  ?  Tell  yo' 
Clytie  what  de  mattah.  You  moughty  po'ly,  fo'  shuah  ;  yu's 
up  too  early,  my  pretty  " — such  were  the  words  of  her  darkie 
nurse  that  rang  in  her  ears  as  she  recovered  consciousness, 
to  find  the  faithful  old  woman  rocking  herself  to  and  fro 
over  her  prostrate  body,  and  muttering  incoherent  prayers 
to  her  jade  idol  for  her  mistress'  recovery. 

"  Be  quiet,  Clytie,"  said  she  ;  "  I'm  quite  well,  only  I've 
been  frightened.  I  ought  to  have  eaten  something  before  I 
got  to  work.  Get  it  me  quickly  ;  and  mind  !  don't  speak  of 
this  to  Mr.  Trevanion." 

"  Sho'  'nuff,"  replied  she. 

There  was  little  fear  of  her  volunteering  her  conversation 
to  Eric,  whom  she  in  some  way  connected — she  knew  not 
how — with  this  unprecedented  state  of  her  mistress'  nerves. 
And  Daphne  sat  down  before  the  fire,  unable  for  some  mys- 
terious reason  to  rid  her  mind  of  thoughts  of  her  early  life, 


1 1 2  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

of  Baton  Rouge,  and  of  the  would-be  husband  she  had  never 
seen — Paul  du  Peyral. 

By  ten  o'clock,  when  Eric  arrived,  she  was  herself  again, 
calmly  at  work,  the  obsession  of  her  mind  having  departed 
as  quickly  and  mysteriously  as  it  had  supervened.  She  had, 
as  a  precautionary  measure,  sent  for  her  doctor  as  soon  as 
it  was  fair  to  rouse  him  to  his  day's  work,  and  he  had  com- 
pletely restored  her  equanimity.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
it — he  was  reassuringly  positive,  as  doctors  always  are  on 
points  they  know  absolutely  nothing  about — she  was  quite 
obviously  suffering,  said  he,  from  a  touch  of  indigestion. 
She  had  eaten  something — he  could  not  say  what — that 
had  not  agreed  with  her  ! 

That  was  all. 

"  By-the-by,  Eric,"  said  she,  after  he  had  been  there  some 
time,  "  I  was  reading  over  some  of  your  stuff  last  night,  so 
as  to  secure  a  good  night's  rest,  and  I  found  that  article  of 
yours  on  Yucatan  and  Atlantis.  I  liked  it  better  than  ever, 
and  have  sent  it  to  the  editor  of  Smith's  Monthly.  Do  you 
mind  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  form — he's  had  it  once, 
and  we  shall  have  it  back  again.  I  .might  have  saved  you 
the  trouble  of  sending  it ;  but  it  really  doesn't  matter,  sweet- 
heart. What  a  good  child  you  are  !  You're  always  thinking 
of  me." 

"Oh,  it's  not  that — but  I  will  make,  these  editors  appreci- 
ate you." 

He  came  over  and  kissed  her,  and  went  back  to  his  work 
feeling  that  the  whole  world  was  nothing  to  him  so  long  as 
he  kept  the  love  of  this  wonderful  woman.  Still,  was  it  not 
strange  that  she  should  have  suddenly  warmed  to  an  appreci- 
ation of  that  article  of  his  ? — for  he  remembered  her  laugh- 
ing it  to  scorn  when  first  he  read  it  to  her ;  but  perhaps  she 
was  at  last  acquiring  a  taste  for  his  work,  and  he  regarded 
it  as  a  good  omen. 

Of  the  curious  obsession  of  her  mind  that  morning  neither 
the  Princess  nor  Clytie  whispered  a  word,  and  it  is  probable 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  1 1 3 

that,  had  it  never  been  repeated,  he  would  never  have  heard 
anything  about  it  at  all  ;  but  to  Daphne's  bewilderment  and 
Clytie's  alarm,  the  symptoms  recurred  at  intervals,  generally 
late  at  night,  and  sometimes  with  such  strength  that  it  was 
hours  before  Daphne  became  quite  herself  again.  After 
such  attacks  Eric  would  find  her  altered  in  some  strange, 
indefinable  way  ;  her  manner  was  hardened,  her  ideas  were 
more  independent  and  brusque,  her  whole  personality  was 
coarser,  as  it  were,  but  at  the  same  time  touched  over  with  a 
more  languorous  sense  of  luxury,  a  carelessness  that  was  at 
the  same  time  more  subtle  but  more  pronounced.  They  had 
almost  ceased  to  alarm  her,  for  the  doctor  before  mentioned, 
having  been  once  more  consulted,  had  confirmed  his  pre- 
vious opinion  on  the  case  :  It  was  impossible  to  say  exactly 
what  the  disturbing  influence  was — probably  the  home-sick 
fruit  of  the  Kensington  green-grocer  ;  the  effect,  beyond  all 
doubt,  was  a  certain  congestion  of  the  blood-vessels  of  the 
cerebellum  produced  by  a  disordered  state  of  the  stomach. 
There  was  nothing  to  fear  in  any  way.  Seven-and-six  for 
the  visit — during  which  he  acquired  artistic  dinner-party  con- 
versation for  a  week — and  two  of  these  pills  after  every 
attack — too  late  to  prevent  the  attack — true  ! — but  quite  sure 
to  prevent  its  recurrence — for  a  time,  at  least.  Er — thank 
you  ! 

It  was  one  afternoon,  about  three  weeks  after  her  first 
seizure,  that  Eric  suggested  suddenly  : 

"  Daphne,  do  you  remember  that  night  we  went  to  the 
Parthenon  together  ?  " 

"  Do  I  remember  it  ?  Cher  ami,  do  you  think  I  shall  ever 
forget  it  ?  " 

"  Let's  go  there  to-night  and  see  the  new  piece — for  '  auld 
lang  syne,'  as  it  were." 

"  Certainly,  boy ;  will  you  dine  here,  or  shall  I  dine  with 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come  down  to  the  Bristol  with  me,  and  then  we  shall 
not  have  to  hurry  so." 

And  so  it  was  arranged,  and  six  o'clock  saw  them  flying 


1 14  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

down  Piccadilly  again,  as  on  the  night  when  they  gave  up 
the  world  for  one  another. 

They  were  supremely  happy,  and  they  showed  it.  A 
brighter  spark  appeared  to  gleam  in  Daphne's  eyes  as  she 
sat  by  Eric's  side  ;  whilst,  for  his  part,  a  sensation  of  utter 
and  absolute  contentment  seemed  to  pervade  his  whole  being. 
He  hardly  noticed  the  play,  and  was  only  conscious  of  a 
lover-like  regret  that  the  fall  of  the  curtain  chased  them  once 
more  into  the  open  air.  Arrived  once  more  in  Holland 
Street,  he  was  following  Daphne  into  the  studio,  when  sud- 
denly she  sprang  back,  exclaiming, 

"  Eric  !  there's  somebody  there." 

"  What ! "  he  cried,  and  strode  past  her  into  the  studio. 

The  fire-light  threw  shadow-shapes,  gaunt  and  monstrous, 
upon  the  walls  ;  the  imprisoned  air  seemed  heavy  with  the 
sensuous  perfume  of  the  Princess  Daphne's  personality ;  but 
that  was  all. 

"  Bah  !  "  said  he,  as  he  struck  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his 
shoe,  and  lit  the  gas,  "  there's  no  one  here.  Tell  you  what 
it  is,  Daph  ;  you're  getting  nervous,  and  I  don't  like  it.  Let 
me  give  you  something  strong  ;  what  shall  it  be  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  looked  round.  Something  in 
her  look  arrested  him  as  he  stepped  towards  her.  She  had 
curled  herself  up  as  it  were  on  the  hearth-rug  among  the 
pillows  that  had  fallen  from  the  lounge,  a  position,  pictur- 
esque, passionate,  beautiful,  but  not  hers.  A  strange,  yearn- 
ing look  was  in  her  eyes,  her  half-parted  lips  wore  a  feverish 
crimson,  and,  revealed  by  the  cut  of  her  corsage,  he  saw  her 
bosom  heave  as  if  she  suffocated  under  some  strange  excite- 
ment. It  was  Daphne,  and  yet  not  Daphne  ;  the  figure  that 
lay  before  him  was  too  soft,  too  sinuous ;  the  position  was 
too  undignified,  too  wild — if  such  an  expression  may  be  ap- 
plied to  a  posture — for  the  calm,  cool  Princess.  He  flung 
himself  on  his  knees  by  her  side,  exclaiming, 

"  Daphne,  my  darling,  what  is  it  ?  " 

For  answer  she  gathered  his  head  in  her  long  white  arms, 
and  drew  it  down  to  hers,  crushing  him  in  an  embrace  that 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  1 1  5 

was  almost  suffocating,  till  he  could  feel  the  tumultuous 
beating  of  her  heart  as  she  whispered  : 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul,  my  darling  !  " 

"  Paul !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  started  from  her.  "  Who's 
that  ?  " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  You  said  '  Paul.'  What  do  you  mean  ?  Come,  child, 
get  up,  and  be  sensible." 

"  Sensible  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Aren't  you  Paul  ?  Oh, 
no  ;  you're  Eric.  And  yet  I  seem  to  know  a  man  named 
Paul.  Isn't  it  you  ?  No.  Ah  !  but  what  does  it  matter  ? 
Oh,  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  dear ;  put  your  arms  round 
me,  to  tell  me  you  are  here.  Oh  !  Eric,  if  you  knew  how  I 
love  you  ! " 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  look 
— you  act — so  strangely." 

"  Well,  never  mind — kiss  me  !  " 

"  No,  you  are  not  yourself ;  let  me  get  you  something. 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself,"  said  she,  rising  suddenly 
and  flinging  herself  into  a  chair.  "  No  I'm  not  myself — I 
don't  care — it  pleases  me  to  be  someone  else  for  the  time. 
What  does  it  matter  ?  You  are  not  Eric,  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out — everything  seems  topsy-turvy — so  much  the  bet- 
ter ;  it  makes  a  change.  Come  !  " 

He  stood  still,  a  few  paces  from  her,  as  if  terror-stricken 
— spell-bound.  Was  this  his  grand,  graceful  Daphne,  whose 
calmness  had  so  often  chilled  the  flame  of  his  love  when  it 
blazed  highest  ?  Was  this  the  woman  who,  in  the  pure  de- 
votion of  herself  to  him,  had  become  his,  to  the  nethermost 
thought  of  her  soul  ?  Good  God  !  the  woman  who  looked  at 
him  from  the  arm-chair  through  Daphne's  eyes  was  almost 
coarse — almost  animal — in  her  expression.  He  turned  away 
and  looked  into  the  fire,  as  if  to  find  there  the  explanation 
of  the  transformation  that  had  taken  place  before  his  very 
eyes.  She  nudged  him  with  her  slippered  foot. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  kiss  me,  darling  ?  " 


1 1 6  THE  PRINCESS  DAP1IXE. 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush  ! "  he  murmured,  taking  a  few  steps  away 
from  her.  She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  My  God  !  what  a  fool  I  am  to  love  you  so  !  I  ought  to 
be  a  sickly,  sentimental  school-girl,  ready  to  weep  with  you, 
laugh  with  you,  dance  with  you,  and  sigh  all  day  at  your 
lightest  frown.  But  I'm  not.  What  I  am,  I  am  ;  if  you 
don't  like  it  you  needn't  take  it ;  there  are  a  hundred  men 
as  good  as  you  within  as  many  yards.  I  must  have  been 
mad  when  I  made  up  my  mind  that  you  were  the  only  man 
in  the  world.  Ah !  but  the  difference  between  you  and 
Paul  !  " 

That  name  again  !  He  turned  sharply  upon  her,  just  in 
time  to  see  her  sway  to  and  fro  for  an  instant,  and  then  to 
catch  her  as  she  fell  into  his  arms. 

He  laid  her  on  the  lounge.  Hardly  had  he  done  so, 
when,  with  a  choking  sigh,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing 
him  bending  over  her,  she  said,  with  a  half-frightened  look, 
as  she  saw  the  hard,  cold  pain  in  his  eyes, 

"  Eric,  my  darling,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  You  ask  »/<?what  is  it.  Good  heavens  !  that's  what  I  ask 
you  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  Eric,  I  feel  so  strange  ;  just 
as  if  I'd  had  one  of  those  stupid  fainting  fits  of  mine.  What 
has  happened  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  life,  I  don't  know.  You  seem  to  have  been 
possessed  for  the  last  twenty  minutes.  Who  is  '  Paul'  ?  " 

"  Paul  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Paul.  You  have  been  talking — raving — about  him, 
and  saying  the  most  awful  things  to  me." 

"  To  you  ?  oh,  my  love  !  "  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  and  said,  in  a  broken  whisper, 
"  My  God  !  am  I  going  mad  ?  " 

Eric  made  no  answer. 

"  I  feel,"  continued  she,  "  as  if  I  had  been  somebody  else, 
somewhere  else,  and  I  thought  that  you  were  that  horrible 
man  who  is  in  America — Paul  du  Peyral.  Oh,  Eric,  what 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  I  1 7 

does  it  mean  ?     I  can't  bear  it ;  "  and  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  known  her,  she  burst  into  tears. 

He  knelt  by  her  side  and  put  his  arms  round  her,  torn 
hither  and  thither  by  a  weird  feeling  of  violent  attraction 
and  equally  violent  repulsion.  What  was  the  mystery  at» 
taching  to  this  incomprehensible  woman  ? 

Little  by  little  she  became  quieter,  calmer — herself  again  ; 
and  when  he  left  her,  there  was  no  trace  remaining  of  the 
manner  that  had  horrified  him  so,  no  recollection  of  the  in- 
cident which,  on  his  mind  at  least,  had  left  an  impression  of 
uneasiness,  if  not  of  positive  alarm.  He  slept  but  little  that 
night,  but  determined  to  learn,  without  delay,  all  that  he 
could  of  this  Paul  du  Peyral,  who  seemed  to  cross  his  path 
continually,  and  who  seemed  to  be  in  some  mysterious  way 
entangled  in  the  skein  of  his  existence,  and  of  that  of  the 
Princess  Daphne. 

His  opportunity  came  sooner  than  he  expected  it.  A 
couple  of  days  later  the  Eastons  gave  a  tea-party  to  the  col- 
ony, and  as  their  studio  was  smaller  and  less  picturesque 
than  his,  he  placed  the  latter  at  their  disposal,  and  found 
himself  to  a  certain  extent  in  the  position  of  host  with 
regard  to  their  guests.  If  it  had  not  been  for  this,  he  would 
probably  have  hardly  noticed  the  good-looking  vulgarian 
who  was  presented  to  him  by  Sylvia  Easton  as  "  Mr.  Charles 
Sturton-Baker  " — the  name  in  full.  Mr.  Baker  had  pro- 
moted himself  from  the  obscurity  of  Belsize,  N.  W.,  to  the 
dignity  of  a  hyphenated  name,  and  of  a  manner  which  he 
fancied  was  more  suited  to  the  punctuation.  Miss  Easton, 
not  quite  sqre  of  her  suburban  Adonis  when  transplanted 
into  Holland  Street,  exploded  a  mine  in  her  good-natured 
endeavour  to  supply  him  with  a  cloak  for  his  personality,  by 
saying  sweetly  as  she  presented  him, 

"  Mr.  Baker — er — Mr.  Sturton-Baker  has  just  returned  tri- 
umphant from  the  conquest  of  social  New  York." 

"  This  may  be  my  man,"  thought  Eric,  as  he  shook  Mr. 
Baker's  hand,  and  invited  him  to  Ipok  at  his  sherry  and  bric- 
a-brac  with  him. 


1 1 8  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  So  you  have  been  in  America,  Mr.  Baker,"  said  he,  by 
way  of  opening  the  conversation  ;  "  how  did  it  impress  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  that  thousands  of  Americans  lose  their 
lives  yearly  by  asking  that  question  of  foreigners  ?  " 

"  Indeed  !  why — how  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  the  question  that  one  is  asked  from  the 
moment  one  lands  till  the  moment  one  re-embarks,  and  after 
a  few  days,  killing  the  man  who  asks  it  of  you  becomes 
merely  justifiable  homicide." 

"  Indeed !  I  wasn't  aware  that  I  was  either  transgressing 
the  laws  or  courting  danger  when  I  asked  the  question. 
But  seriously,  it  must  be  a  very  interesting  country.  I  have 
always  heard  that  its  social  institutions  are  quite  unique." 

"  Well,  in  what  way  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  all  classes  of  society  are  mixed  up  together  in- 
extricably, and  you  never  know  whether  you  have  a  million- 
aire driving  your  horse-car,  or  a  car-driver  receiving  you  in  a 
millionaire's  mansion." 

"  That  is  to  a  certain  extent  true.  I  "have  met  in  my 
American  travels  car-drivers  and  bar-tenders  whom  I  should 
be  proud  to  call  my  friends,  and  millionaires  and  social 
magnates  whom  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  black  my  boots. 
Excellent  sherry  this,  Mr.  Trevanion  !  " 

"  Er — yes.  Have  some  more.  I  suppose  no  one  ever 
inquires  into  his  friend's  antecedents  in  the  land  of  the  brave 
and  the  home  of  the  free." 

"  Oh,  no.  A  sort  of  Fifth-Avenue  oblige  keeps  them  quiet 
on  questions  of  paternity  and  grand-paternity.  It  is  only 
the  members  of  the  haut  Knickerbocker  regime  who  discuss 
their  pedigrees  ;  and  the  descendant  of  a  Dutch  adventurer 
thinks  he  confers  a  great  honour  when  he  marries  the  millions 
of  some  commercial  magnate.  The  funny  part  of  it  all  is, 
that  when  said  descendant  of  said  Dutch  rapscallion  wants 
to  be  particularly  insulting  to  the  working-bee  in  the  hive,  he 
describes  the  latter  contemptuously  as  '  a  Dutchman.1  " 

"  And  did  you  come  asross  the  Creole  element  of  society 
at  all  ?  " 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  I  19 

"  Hardly  at  all.  Few  Creoles  inhabit  the  North  and 
East,  and  when  they  do,  one  seldom  knows  them  to  be  such. 
Now  and  then  one  meets  a  handsome,  stormy-looking  man 
or  woman,  and  hears  that  it  is  a  Creole — that  is  all." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  ever  came  across  a  Mr.  Paul  du  Pey- 
ral  ?  " 

The  vulgar  face  became  convulsed  by  an  expression  that 
was  half  astonishment  and  half  leer,  as  he  replied : 

"  Why,  yes — I  have  come  across  him  ;  what  of  him  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  him,  but  I  should  like  to." 

"  Mr.  Trevanion,  if  I  read  your  expression  right  your 
feelings  toward  du  Peyral  are  hardly  friendly." 

"  Well,  no ;  he  keeps  a  dear  friend  of  mine  out  of  a  very 
large  fortune,  and  seems,  in  more  ways  than  one,  to  lie 
across  my  path — though  I  have  never  seen  him.  You  know, 
it  happens  so  sometimes." 

"  Then  I  have  the  advantage  of  you,  for  I  have  stayed  in 
a  country-house  with  him,  and  can  only  say  that  he  was  per- 
sonally very  offensive  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  a  gentleman,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Well,  yes — I  suppose  so,"  replied  Baker,  on  whom  the 
gentle  sarcasm  was  completely  lost.  "  He's  one  of  those 
affected,  half-mystic  people  who  think  the  world  of  them- 
selves here,  and  will  want  frills  on  their  halos  hereafter." 

"  You  evidently  don't  like  him,  Mr.  Baker — have  some 
more  sherry." 

"  Thanks !  No,  I  don't ;  in  fact,  between  you  and  me, 
old  man,  he  did  his  best — and  failed — to  spoil  a  very  pretty 
little  game  of  mine  over  there.  There  is  a  little  girl  in  New 
York  who  thinks  herself  a  second  Madame  Recamier,  but 
isn't,  and  who  is  madly  in  love  with  me — all  New  York 
rings  with  it.  Now,  as  she  has  millions  of  her  own,  I  have 
gone  in  for  them,  and  in  a  few  months  you'll  see  me  making 
her  American  dollars  fly  right  merrily.  Now  this  du  Peyral 
wanted  her  for  himself,  so  he  abused  me  to  her  like  mad, 
and  then  had  to  take  it  all  back,  as  they  say  over  there. 
Naturally,  I  should  like  to  get  even  with  him." 


I2Q  THE  PRINCESS -DAPHNE. 

"  He  wants  to  marry  this  girl,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  wants  to  marry  her  money ;  I  don't  fancy  he  is 
rich  himself.  Unfortunately,  there  is  an  obstacle,  I  under- 
stand— some  liaison  he  has  formed  over  there." 

"  A  liaison  ?  " 

"  Yes — see  here — I  only  heard  about  it  by  this  morning's 
mail — here's  my  little  girl's  letter." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  I  don't  want  to  read  your  love 
letters !  " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right ;  go  on.  Women  shouldn't  make 
fools  of  themselves  if  they  don't  want  it  known.  However, 
if  you  don't  care  to  know  what  you  ask  about,  you  needn't 
read  it,  that's  all." 

Eric,  seeing  that  the  man  was  in  earnest,  took  the  letter, 
and  read  as  follows  : 

"  My  own  sweet  darling,  etc.,  etc.,  Charlie  !  You  know 
that  your  little  girl  is  unhappy,  for  when  you  are  away,  etc., 
etc.  When  you  come  back — and  you  will  come  back,  won't 
you,  Charlie  ?  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — I  shall  have  such  lots  to  tell 
you  that  you  won't  want  to  hear,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  naughty 
boy !  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  darling !  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  married*,  etc., 
etc.,  etc.  And  I  am  your  own  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  Parthenia, 
P.  S. — I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you, 
darling.  The  other  day  that  loathsome  man,  du  Peyral, 
called — like  his  impertinence  ! — and,  oh !  my  darling,  etc., 
etc.,  etc.,  he  said  the  most  dreadful  things  about  you.  Of 
course  I  didn't  believe  him,  because  I  know  in  my  etc.,  etc., 
etc.,  that  you  are  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  and  I  thought  no  more 
about  it ;  but  he  wrote  to  a  gentleman  in  England  named 
Gabriel  Hawleigh,  whom  I  should  like  to  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  who 
wrote  back  the  truth  about  you,  which  was  lovely.  And  du 
Peyral  was  so  dreadfully  frightened  of  what  you  would  do  to 
him  that  he  gave  me  the  letter  to  read,  with  a  perfectly  grov- 
elling apology  for  having  slandered  you.  I  hope  that,  when 
you  come  over  again,  you  will  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  The  idea  of  his 
daring  to  call  at  a  decent  house,  when  everyone  knows  that 
he  is  somehow  connected  with  that  dreadful  woman, 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  1 2  I 

Mahmoure  di  Zulueta,  who  you  know  was  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
and  is  etc.,  etc.,  etc."  And  then,  with  renewed  expressions 
of  admiration,  of  the  domestic  servant  order,  the  postscript 
closed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  letter  from  a  girl  with 
five  millions,  my  boy,  eh  ?  "  remarked  Mr.  Baker,  as  Eric 
returned  him  the  communication,  with  an  expression  of 
supreme  disgust  on  his  face. 

"  Well,  it  is  hardly  a  letter  that  I  should  think  your 
million-heiress  wants  hawked  round  to  flatter  your  vanity ; 
but  you  certainly  seem  to  have  cause  to  dislike  Mr.  Paul  du 
Peyral.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? " 

"  Ah  !  that's  it.  First  of  all  I  am  going  to  find  out  all  I 
can  about  him  and  the  Zulueta  through  Murray  Hill,  an 
American  friend  of  mine,  and  then  I  shall  marry  my  little 
gold-fish." 

"  Je  vous  souhaite  de  la  chance  !" 

"  Eh  ? " 

"  Good  luck  to  you  !  " 

"Oh!  certainly,  thanks — great  heavens!  who  is  that 
woman  who  has  just  come  into  the  room  ?  What  a  clipping 
gal!" 

"  That  is  Miss  Daphne  Prdault,"  said  Eric,  very  stiffly. 

"  Well,  she's  A  i,  ain't  she  ?     Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  say — introduce  her  to  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  present  you  to  her,  if  she  cares  about  it.  I'll  ask 
her,  if  you  like." 

'•  All  right,  old  man  ;  go  on.  And,  I  say,  do  you  know — 
it's  a  queer  coincidence — she's  the  living  image  of  that  man 
we've  been  talking  about — Paul  du  Peyral ! " 

******* 

"  My  goodness,  Eric,"  said  the  Princess,  as  they  entered 
her  studio  together  an  hour  later,  "  why  on  earth  did  you 
introduce  that  horrid- little  cad  Baker  to  me? — I  believe  he 
was  half  tipsy." 

"  He  was  all  you  say  he   is,  chere  amie,  but  I  owed  him 


1 22  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

some  favour,  and  that  was  the  one  he  claimed.  He  had  been 
giving  me  very  useful  information  about  the  man  who  I 
believe  is  what  the  Germans  call  your  doppelganger — Paul  du 
Peyral.  He  hates  him,  and  if  there  is  anything  wrong  with 
Monsieur  Paul,  he'll  find  it  out  through  an  idiotic  but  love- 
lorn American  heiress,  who  is  negotiating  the  purchase  of 
Mr.  Baker  for  her  very  own,  and  will,  in  this  manner,  save  us 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  expense.  I've  asked  him  to  come 
and  report  progress  to  me.  //  faut  souffrir,  you  know, 
pouretrc au  courant I  One  must  suffer,  to  be  well-informed." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  devotion  on  your  part  which  I  highly  appre- 
ciate ; "  and  the  conversation  drifted  on  to  other  subjects. 

It  was  about  half-past  nine  that  evening  that  Eric  and 
Daphne  were  sitting  before  the  fire,  playing  tiarte,  when 
Gabriel  sprang  into  the  studio  suddenly,  pale  and  out  of 
breath. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  hung,"  he  cried,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  Good  God !     Whom  have  you  killed  ?  "  exclaimed  Eric. 

"  My  picture,  I  mean — see  !  "  and  he  produced  the  notice 
from  the  authorities  at  Burlington  House,  which  told  him 
that  its  hospitable  portals  would  be  thrown  open  to  him  on 
Varnishing  day,  at  the  Private  View  and  at  the  Academy 
Soiree. 

A  season  of  genuine  congratulation  ensued,  which  became 
general  a  few  moments  later,  when  the  postman  arrived  bear- 
ing similar  intelligence  for  the  Princess  Daphne ;  and  as 
Gabriel  rose  to  leave,  having  been  warmly  felicitated  by 
Eric,  the  Princess  took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  leaning 
over,  kissed  his  forehead,  saying, 

"  Gabriel,  dear  friend  of  ours,  I  am  proud  to  be  the  first 
to  salute  you  on  your  accession  to  greatness.  A  new  era 
has  opened  for  you — and  for  Maye.  May  it  be  eternal,  and 
may  we  all  live  long  to  congratulate  ourselves  on  being  the 
intimate  friends  of  one  of  the  greatest  artists  of  his  day." 

It  was  with  a  tear  in  each  eye  that  Gabriel  rushed  from 
the  studio  to  go  on  spreading  his  good  news.  As  he  did  so, 
the  door  slammed  violently  behind  him,  and  a  little  mirror 


DAPHNE  AND  ERIC.  123 

that  hung  by  its  side  fell  with  a  crash,  and  was  shattered 
into  fragments. 

"  Absit  omen  !  "  ejaculated  Eric.    And  he  rang  for  Clytem- 
nestra. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    ANGLOMANIAC. 

IN  a  delicately-furnished  male  apartment  in  the  hotel 
which  he  had  come  fondly  to  imagine  had  been  named  after 
himself,  sat  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  an  American  gentleman  of 
Spanish  appearance  and  French  manners,  the  aim  and 
object  of  whose  existence  was  to  be  taken  for  an  English' 
man.  With  this  purpose  in  view  he  clothed  his  symmetrical 
form  entirely  in  British  clothes,  was  virulent  in  his  abuse  of 
all  things  American,  turned  up  his  trousers  in  New  York 
when  the  weather  reports  announced  rain  in  London,  spoke 
with  an  amazing  drawl,  stuck  an  eye-glass  of  a  perfectly 
innocuous  and  supererogatory  description  in  his  dexter  optic, 
affected  with  enthusiasm  the  society  of  wandering  English- 
men, and  was  consequently  a  centre  of  adulation  and  imita- 
tion in  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  Pantaloon  Club,  within 
whose  exclusive  portals  the  gilded  youth  of  Manhattan  origin 
strove  to  hide  their  honourable  Dutch  ancestry  beneath  a 
varnish  of  acute  anglomania. 

From  the  above  description  the  casual  reader  might  be 
inclined  to  write  Mr.  Murray  Hill  down  an  ass,  but  the  cas- 
ual reader  would  be  vastly  mistaken.  A  better  fellow  never 
showed  himself  at  Delmonico's  than  Mr.  Murray  Hill ;  a  gen- 
tleman in  every  modern  sense  of  the  word,  the  shady  mem- 
bers of  the  English  snobocracy  who  yearly  came  to  New 
York  for  the  winter,  and  who  ought  to  have  been  proud  of 
his  friendship,  were  seldom  fit  to  be  spoken  of  in  the  same 
breath  with  him  ;  and  by  those  who  understood  him  at  his 
proper  value,  his  little  transatlantic  idiosyncrasies  were  read 
ily  forgiven,  on  the  principle  of  "  Nullum  magnum  ingenium 

124 


AN  ANGL OMA NIA  C.  125 

sine  mixturd  dementia!" — a  great  genius  is  always  a  trifle 
mad  ! 

It  was  unfortunate,  however,  that  his  knowledge  of  Great 
Britain  was  not  of  a  kind  complete  enough  to  show  him 
what  should  have  been  apparent  to  the  merest  observer,  viz., 
that  Charles  Sturton  Baker  was  a  cad  in  the  most  practical 
and  onomatopoetic  sense  of  the  term,  for,  meeting  that  per- 
son one  day  at  the  Sunday  menagerie  of  the  Van  Baulk'ems, 
he  was  led  away  by  his  somewhat  aggressive  personality, 
and  nearly  succeeded  in  launching  him  in  the  best  society 
of  the  modern  Gotham.  After  Baker's  return  to  the  land 
of  his  obscure  birth,  he  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  Mr. 
Murray  Hill  for  his  own  selfish  purposes,  a  correspondence 
which  he  garnished  freely  with  extracts  from  Truth,  The 
World,  and  Vanity  Fair,  on  the  culinary  principle  of  "fla- 
vour to  taste,  and  serve  quickly  on  clean  paper." 

It  was  with  a  lazy  tremor  of  joyful  anticipation  therefore, 
that,  on  the  morning  of  which  I  speak,  Mr.  Murray  Hill 
took  up  the  envelope  that  lay  beside  his  chocolate,  and  whose 
postmark,  "  London,"  was  in  no  sense — for  him — quali- 
fied by  the  letters  "  N.  W."  that  bespoke  its  evangelhurst 
origin ;  and,  breaking  the  seal,  he  commenced,  with  much 
appreciation,  the  string  of  second-hand  and  original  (though 
imaginary)  gossip  of  the  back-stairs  and  of  cheap  society 
journalism.  That  H.  R.  H.  should  have  worn  in  his  button- 
hole at  "  The  Private  View "  the  entire  spike  of  a  double 
hyacinth  bloom  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  thrilling  ;  but  it 
paled  into  insignificance  before  the  intelligence  that  a  Royal 
Duke  had  expressed  to  Mr.  Baker,  on  the  steps  of  the 
Marlborough  Club,  the  opinion  that,  if  that  sanctuary  were 
conducted  more  on  the  lines  of  the  Pantaloon  Club  in  New 
York,  his  Brother  (with  a  capital  B)  would  have  nothing  left 
to  wish  for  in  the  world.  It  was  therefore  with  a  new  thrill 
of  pleasure  that  he  received  Mr.  Baker's  commission,  which 
was  couched  in  the  following  terms : 

"  A  few  days  ago  I  was  talking  about  you  to  my  bosom 
friend,  Lord  Trevanion,  and  he  said  to  me,  '  I  wonder 


126  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

whether  Mr.  Murray  Hill  could  find  out  for  me  anything 
about  a  man  named  Paul  du  Peyral,  who  lives  in  New  York. 
He  is,  I  believe,  an  adventurer  of  the  deepest  dye,  and 
should  he  by  any  chance  be  married  quietly,  it  would  be  a 
scrap  of  intelligence  that  would  entitle  its  author  to  sincere 
gratitude  in  High  Quarters?  "  [Capital  H.  Q.,  and  under- 
lined.] 

Now,  Mr.  Murray  Hill  had  traversed  the  world  from  China 
to  Peru — proceeding  in  a  westerly  direction,  of  course — and 
consequently  Paul  du  Peyral  was  not  only  well  known  to 
him,  but  was  also,  in  the  lucid  intervals  when  he  was  free 
from  anglomania,  an  object  of  intelligent  admiration  to 
him.  But  the  mania  was  strong  upon  him  this  morning, 
and  he  determined,  in  a  social  but  drastic  manner,  to 
enquire  into  that  gentleman's  "  record,"  and  report  accord- 
ingly. Mere  personal  admiration  must  not  be  allowed  to 
interfere  with  patriotic  esprit  de  corps,  and,  posted  as  he  was 
in  matters  transatlantic,  Mr.  Murray  Hill  had  almost  come 
to  look  upon  himself  as  an  Englishman  ! 

His  toilet  carefully  completed,  therefore,  he  sallied  forth 
— that,  though  hackneyed,  is  the  only  expression  that  ever 
conveys  adequately  to  my  mind  the  progress  of  the  Ameri- 
can dandy  down  Fifth  Avenue — to  the  Pantaloon  Club,  in 
the  classic  gloom  of  whose  reading-room  he  found  a  selec- 
tion of  the  gray-headed  youth — the  jcunesse  argente'e — of 
New  York,  and  of  him  who  seemed  to  him  the  best,  or 
rather,  the  most  promiscuously,  informed,  he  inquired  for 
data  concerning  that  traveller-mystic,  Paul  du  Peyral.  The 
answer  was  prompt  and  precise. 

"  Du  Peyral?  Oh,  yes.  A  queer  chap,  but  interesting  in 
his  way.  He  was  at  Mrs.  Lexington  Park's  last  night,  and 
he  and  Eugene  Stiggins  had  rather  an  interesting  discussion 
on  mesmerism.  You  know,  Eugene  is  awfully  good  at  it, 
but  he  confessed  himself  nowhere  in  the  presence  of  du 
Peyral.  Why,  there  was  a  woman  there  who  humbugged 
him  about  it,  and  said  she  did  not  believe  in  it,  and  our 
mystic  just  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  and  then  said,  '  You 


AN  ANGLOMANIAS  I2/ 

can't  stir  an  inch,  hand  or  foot ; '  and,  by  gad,  sir,  she 
couldn't  1  I  never  saw  a  girl  so  scared  in  my  life.  She 
began  to  beg  off,  and  he  simply  said,  '  Hush  !  you  can't 
speak ; '  and,  by  gad,  sir,  she  couldn't !  It  was  wonderful. 
Then  he  clapped  his  hands  and  said,  '  Now  you're  all  right ; ' 
and  she  was.  She  didn't  chaff  him  any  more,  but  followed 
him  about  the  room  with  her  eyes  all  the  evening,  as  if  he 
had  bewitched  her." 

"  But  who  is  he,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure,  but  they  say  he's  a  Creole  by  birth. 
He  came  here  a  few  years  ago,  and  his  ostensible  occupa- 
tion is  a  study  of  'Skeeters  and  Bluebottles,  or  something 
of  that  kind;  but  they  say  that's  only  a  blind — that  he  per- 
forms weird  rites  in  his  own  rooms  with  that  queer  foreign 
woman,  Mahmoure  di  Zulueta.  He'll  get  his  head  broken 
by  someone  some  day,  if  he  performs  promiscuously  on 
other  people's  best  girls." 

"  What's  the  tie  between  him  and  la  Zulueta  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  a  mystery  too,  and  a  rather  delicate  one. 
He  hasn't  known  her  very  long,  but  they're  awful  thick — 
nearly  always  together,  and  people  say — well — you  know  ! 
Tom  Morrison  was  catching  bass  on  Lake  Ontario  some 
time  ago,  and  saw  them  together  at  Niagara,  and  put  them 
down  as  a  pair  of  honeymooning  turtles." 

"  Honeymoon  ? " 

"  Well — sort  of.  However,  there's  no  fear  of  Paul  marry- 
ing the  dazzling  Mahmoure,  for  if  he  does,  all  his  money 
goes  to  the  Preaults  of  New  Orleans.  Claude  Preault  was 
telling  me  about  it  the  other  day.  Naturally  they  wish  he'd 
marry,  but  du  Peyral's  too  foxy,  and  doesn't  bother  about 
buying  the  tree  when  he  can  always  pick  an  apple." 

"  Oh !  " 

Mr.  Murray  Hill  lunched  pensively,  and  then  wandered 
down  the  mountain  side  till  he  reached  Paul  du  Peyral's 
rooms.  He  was  greeted  with  effusion,  and  presented  to 
Mahmoure,  who  lay  in  a  sort  of  happy  lethargy  on  a  lounge. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  spoke  of  the  phenomena  of  the 


128  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

preceding  night  in  terms  of  admiring  interest,  and  followed 
an  established  principle  by  giving  a  biassed  opinion  on  a 
subject  he  knew  nothing  about,  to  the  grave  amusement  of 
Paul,  who  itched  to  give  him  a  practical  illustration,  bift 
withstood  the  temptation  manfully. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mahmoure  looked  after  him  and  said  : 

"  Paul — who's  your  friend  ?  " 

"  Male  variety  of  the  genus  American — sub-order,  Dude 
— class,  Anglomaniac.  A  harmless,  gentlemanly  fellow, 
with  a  lot  of  good  stuff  in  him,  masked  by  a  morbid  fear  of 
letting  it  get  out." 

"  Don't  trust  him." 

"  Good  gracious,  why  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  your  enemy.  Probably  he  doesn't  know 
why  himself,  but  the  way  he  looked  at  me  and  watched  you 
told  me  that  he  had  some  arriere pense'e  in  coming  to  see  you. 
Depend  upon  it  he  didn't  come  here  for  nothing." 

"  What  an  anxious  little  woman  it  is !  Well — don't  be 
afraid,  dear ;  he  can't  hurt  me,  and  he's  one  of  the  few  men 
I  should  care  to  have  around.  He  has  seen  the  world,  and  it 
makes  him  interesting,  because  he  understands  it." 

"  That's  the  very  reason  you  shouldn't  be  too  thick  with 
him,  cher  ami ;  "  and  could  Paul  have  seen  Mr.  Murray  Hill, 
as  he  proceeded  up-town  on  a  broad  grin  and  a  horse-car,  he 
would  have  been  inclined  to  agree  with  her.  As  it  was,  all 
he  said  was  : 

"  Well,  the  only  thing  I  know  against  him  is,  that  he  was 
a  friend  of  Charles  Sturton  Baker's  when  he  was  over  here." 

"  That's  another  name  that  always  frightens  me  for  no 
earthly  reason,  when  I  hear  it ;  depend  upon  it,  Paul,  the 
combination  of  those  two  men  is  bad." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  affect  me  if  he  chooses  to  keep  bad  com- 
pany ;  you  can  put  it  down  to  a  phase  of  anglomania.  But, 
by  Jove  !  one  must  have  it  strong  if  it  blunts  one's  percep- 
tion of  the  moral  and  social  qualities  of  Baker.  But  come, 
let  us  make  an  experiment.  I  wonder  whether  I  could  make 


A  N  ANGLOMANIA  C.  1 29 

you  'appear,'  as  it  is  called,  to  Daphne  Pre'ault,  who  seems 
such  a  friend  of  yours  over  there." 

"  Oh,  not  to-day,  Paul  ;  you  look  so  tired.  It  takes  too 
much  out  of  you." 

"  Nonsense,  little  one,"  replied  Paul ;  but  his  wife  was 
quite  right.  The  rings  round  his  eyes  were  increasing  in 
circumference  and  deepening  in  shade,  and  sometimes  even 
Paul  himself  felt  uneasy  at  the  lassitude  that  crept  over  him. 
Mahmoure',  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  to  be  gaining  strength 
every  day — her  new-found  happiness  seemed  to  restore  to 
her  the  life  she  had  almost  relinquished  through  sheer  in- 
difference to  it ;  and  sometimes  a  horrible  feeling  came  over 
her  that,  Hermippus-like,  she  was  slowly  but  surely  sapping 
his  vitality,  was  living  with  a  life  drawn  in  some  mysterious 
manner  from  his. 

"  Nonsense,  child,"  repeated  Paul  ;  "  I  am  a  little  tired 
this  morning ;  that's  the  result  of  the  mesmerism  at  Mrs. 
Lexington  Park's  last  night ;  but  this  afternoon  or  this  even- 
ing I  shall  try  to  make  the  fair  Daphne  see  a  ghost." 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  a  shame,"  said  Mahmoure,  pensively, 
"  to  worry  her  in  the  way  we  must,  when  we  are  living  on 
money  that  ought  to  be  hers  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Somehow  I  seem  to  have  identified 
myself  with  her  lately,  and  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  were 
ashamed  of  myself  for  having  been  a  party  to  such  a  dis- 
honesty— for  that's  what  it  is,  Paul,  you  can  say  what  you 
like.  I  can't  help  looking  at  it  from  her  point  of  view;  it's 
the  result  of  our  experiments,  I  suppose — but  sometimes  it 
makes  me  miserable  !  " 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  girl,"  replied  Paul,  almost  brutally. 
"  I  have  a  mission  to  fulfil  in  the  world,  and  that  mission  is 
the  perfection  of  mesmeric  science.  I  could  not  get  money 
enough  by  fair  means  to  live  in  the  luxury  which  is  necessary 
to  us  for  the  purpose  of  our  experiments,  so  having  got  it 
by  foul,  I  keep  it.  I  don't  care  how  I  get  it,  so  long  as  I 
have  it." 
9 


I  30  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that.  I'm  quite  serious — and  it 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  a  thief." 

"Oh,  indeed!  Why  this  high  moral  tone  all  of  a  sud- 
den ? "  said  Paul,  with  a  sneer.  "  I  suppose  you  want  me  to 
play  the  restitution  game,  and  all  that !  " 

"  Yes,  Paul." 

"  Great  heavens !  and  it's  for  this  that  I  married  you. 
It's  for  this  that  I've  tried  to  satisfy  for  you  the  scruples 
that  every  woman  naturally  cherishes.  Mahmoure,  you  will 
oblige  me  by  not  mentioning  this  subject  to  me  again — never. 
You  hear  ? " 

"  Yes,  Paul.  There's  only  one  last  question  I  want  to  ask. 
If  you  hadn't  this  money,  should  you  have  enough  of  your 
own  for  us  to  live  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  ;  but  I  don't  choose  to  live  less  comfort- 
ably than  I  do.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  most  of  the 
income  of  old  Pre'ault's  money  is  put  aside  to  provide  for 
you  in  case  I  die.  But  I  won't  hear  any  more  infernal  non- 
sense about  proclaiming  myself  to  the  world  as  a  swindler. 
Now  we  will  change  the  subject,  if  you  please." 

In  this  little  scene  all  the  unscrupulousness  of  du  Peyral's 
race  came  out,  and  it  was  a  kind  of  poetic  justice  that  Mah- 
moure should  have  got  such  an  idea  into  her  head.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  it  was  due  to  the  identification  of  Mahmoure 
with  Daphne  through  his  own  agency.  The  continual  com- 
munion of  the  two  souls  had  made  the  one  woman  sympa- 
thize with  the  other,  thinking  ajmost  with  the  same  mind  as 
she.  But  neither  Paul  nor  Mahmoure  realized  this.  He 
thought  it  a  sickly  sentimentality  that  must  be  crushed  out ; 
she  fancied  that  it  was  a  natural  sympathy  for  the  wronged 
heiress.  It  was  the  commencement  of  a  very  pretty  compli- 
cation in  this  history — a  complication,  in  fact,  on  which  the 
entire  history  was  destined  to  turn. 

If  Mr.  Murray  Hill  could  have  fully  realized  what  was 
going  on  in  Mahmoure's  mind,  his  task  would  have  been 
much  lightened.  As  it  was  he  re-arrayed  himself  in  new  and 


AN  ANGL  OMA NIA  C.  131 

more  patriotically  English  garb,  and  went  and  called  on  Miss 
Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em. 

It  happened  by  good  or  ill  luck  that,  when  he  was  an- 
nounced at  the  Van  Baulk'ems'  mansion,  Miss  Parthenia 
was  seated  in  her  boudoir,  engaged  in  transferring  the  gold 
stamped  band  bearing  the  magic  name  of  Pingat-Laferriere 
from  a  ball-dress  purchased  some  years  ago  in  Paris,  to  the 
waist  of  a  home-made  production  of  the  family  dressmaker. 
Miss  Van  Baulk'em  was  about  to  visit  friends  at  Tuxedo, 
and  felt  that  this  band,  carelessly  exhibited  as  the  gown 
hung  from  its  appointed  peg,  was  more  calculated  to  impress 
her  friends  than  the  "  unsigned  "  work  of  art  of  her  more 
economical  modiste.  Engaged  in  this  work  of  indumentary 
diplomacy,  the  fair  Parthenia  was  equally  busy  making  confi- 
dences on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Charles  Sturton  Baker  to  her 
"  greatest  girl-friend  " — for  the  time  being — and  giving  full 
scope  to  her  venomous  little  tongue  on  the  subject  of  M.  du 
Peyral.  It  was  therefore  annoying  that  Mr.  Murray  Hill 
should  come  at  that  particular  moment,  but  as  he  was  a  com- 
bination of  three  things  strange  among  the  male  adherents 
of  the  Van  Baulk'em  menagerie,  to  wit,  a  gentleman,  a 
scholar,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Baker's,  she  deemed  it  expedi- 
ent to  deviate  from  the  strict  path  of  mendacity,  and  confess 
that  she  was  "  at  home." 

Virtue,  she  felt,  was  on  this  occasion  its  own  reward,  for 
Mr.  Murray  Hill  opened  the  conversation,  in  terms  which 
were  balm  to  her  wounded  soul,  on  the  subject  of  Paul 
du  Peyral,  and  together  they  speculated  on  the  possibility  of 
du  Peyral  having  married  the  beautiful  Mahmoure  on  the 
quiet.  However,  the  question  occurred — what  could  be  his 
object  in  doing  it  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  in  answer  to  her  question, 
"there  could  be  only  one  explanation  of  the  thing.  In 
the  first  place,  if  report  is  not,  as  usual,  a  liar,  la  Zulueta  is 
singularly  fickle  in  the  bestowing  of  her  favours,  and  requires 
chaining;  in  the  second,  du  Peyral  has  evidently  been  infat- 
uated by  her ;  and  in  the  third,  he  is  mad  on  this  mesmeric 


'32 


THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 


business,  and  she  is  his  champion  '  subject. '  Now,  every 
thing  seems  to  point  to  the  fact  of  his  being  an  utterly  un- 
scrupulous adventurer,  so,  to  keep  his  victim  bound  to  him, 
and  to  steal  the  Preault  inheritance  into  the  bargain,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  he  has  married  her  somewhere  without 
saying  anything  about  it.  What  we  want  to  get  at  is  evi- 
dence of  this,  circumstantial  and  documentary.  And  that  is 
what  I  propose  to  do,  if  I  can." 

"  My  heartfelt  wishes  for  your  success  go  with  you,"  re- 
sponded Parthenia.  "  If  that  man  isn't  what  he  pretends  to 
be,  the  sooner  he  is  hounded  out  of  New  York  with  his 
ballet-dancer — well,  actress,  if  you  like — the  better.  Here 
he  has  been,  for  the  last  three  or  four  years,  swelling  about 
the  place  as  an  independent  gentleman,  making  love  to  all 
sorts  of  girls,  and  marrying  none  of  them,  besides  creating 
no  end  of  scandals  with  married  women  ;  so  you  will  be 
doing  a  good  action  to  society  at  large,  and  a  very  great 
favour  to  me."  And  the  beautiful  Parthenia  put  her  hand  on 
Mr.  Murray  Hill's  arm  with  the  coyest  little  pressure  imag- 
inable, and  looked  with  her  great  brown  eyes  deep  into  his. 

Mr.  Murray  Hill  was  only  a  man  after  all,  and  "  Phenie  " 
Van  Eaulk'em,  though  vulgar,  was  very  pretty,  and  when  she 
let  him  carry  her  hand  unresisting  to  his  lips — for  the  ben- 
efit of  "  Charlie  "  of  course — he  felt  that  he  was  indeed  a 
Galahad ;  and  should  "  Charlie  "  prove  to  be  a  King  Arthur, 
he  was  perfectly  prepared  to  become  a  Sir  Launcelot  to  her 
Guinevere.  Mr.  Murray  Hill  was  only  a  man,  after  all  ! 

That  evening  Paul  du  Peyral  made  his  grand  experiment 
of  acting  through  Mahmoure  upon  Daphne  as  she  slept  in 
Holland  Street,  Kensington,  W.,  with  a  measure  of  success 
duly  to  be  recorded  in  the  next  chapter. 

In  her  mesmeric  trance  on  this  occasion  Mahmoure  re- 
tained her  own  personality,  and  gave  Paul  a  description  of 
Daphne  that  astonished  him  vastly.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  Creole  heiress  resembled  him  so  marvellously  in  appear- 
ance ?  or  was  Mahmoure  confusing  the  two  personalities, 


AN  ANGLOMANIAC.  133 

and  describing  him  to  himself  as  Daphne  Preault  ?  It  was  a 
problem  that  he  reserved  to  time  and  himself  for  solution.. 

On  the  following  day,  as  Mahmoure  lay  curled  up  among 
the  cushions  of  the  divan,  to  her  amazement  Mr.  Murray 
Hill  was  announced  !  At  first  she  was  going  to  reply  with  an 
indignant  "  Not  at  home  !  "  when  it  occurred  to  her  that  if 
this  was  an  enemy,  she  might  as  well  cast  around  him  her 
wiles,  to  make  him  declare  himself.  So  he  was  shown  into 
the  snuggery  on  Forty-first  Street  which  is  already  familiar 
to  our  readers. 

"  An  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr.  Hill,"  said  Mahmoure',  as 
that  gentleman  seated  himself  at  a  respectable  distance  from 
the  lounge  on  which  she  lay  curled  up  as  usual. 

"  A  pleasure,  Madame  di  Zulueta,"  replied  he,  "  that  I 
should  have  denied  myself  on  the  grounds  of  etiquette,  for  I 
know  I  ought  to  have  asked  permission  before  venturing  to 
call,  had  it  not  been  that,  though  I  only  had  the  pleasure  of 
making  your  acquaintance  yesterday,  my  thoughts  turned 
somehow  instinctively  to  you  for  sympathy  as  I  passed  your 
door." 

"  For  sympathy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  sympathy  with  an  indignant  man  ;  though  I 
have  no  right  to  be  indignant,  for  my  indignation  is  on 
account  of  other  people's  business,  not  of  my  own." 

"  But  how  interesting  to  find  someone  so  altruistic  as  to 
be  indignant  on  someone  else's  account  !" 

"  Yes,  it  is,  rather,  especially  as  indignation  is  a  very 
wearing  emotion,  and  produces  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  and 
things." 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  tell  me  its  cause  ?  I  always  thought 
that  you  Englishmen  never  had  emotions." 


"You  Englishmen." 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  are  English,  are  you  not  ?  ''  (  Oh  !  the   wily 
Mahmoure'  !  ) 


134  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Mr.  Murray  grew  pink  with  pleasure,  and  as  nearly  as 
possible  hauled  down  his  colours  as  he  stammered : 

"Well,  no! — I'm  not  quite  an  Englishman.  Of  course 
my  family  were  English,  and  that  makes  me  very  un-Ameri- 
can, thank  God  !-and  I've  lived  over  there  a  good  deal 
and—" 

Mr.  Murray  Hill  would  have  gone  on  with  his  Macaulay- 
esque  history  of  himself,  only  that  Mahmoure,  having  made 
her  coup,  didn't  care  a  jot  about  the  fiction  she  had  encour- 
aged, and  so  merely  cut  in  with  : 

"  But  your  cause  of  indignation  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  coming  back  to  fact — 
or  rather,  abandoning  one  fiction  for  another — as  he  remem- 
bered his  business :  "  I  have  been  very  much  disturbed 
this  afternoon  by  a  very  strange  case.  A  young  Englishman 
is  over  here,  slaving  at  almost  menial  literary  work  for  a 
living,  compelled  to  this  course  by  the  unscrupulousness  of 
an  American  blackguard,  who,  living  in  England,  has  con- 
trived to  rob  him  of  an  inheritance  that  is  justly  his." 

"  Oh,  how  abominable  !  can't  you  suppress  the  American 
blackguard  over  there  ?  " 

"  Well,  blackguard  is  rather  too  strong  a  term.  I  was  led 
away  by  my  feelings — foolish  things  to  have,  are  they  not  ? 
I  should  have  said  adventuress,  for  the  swindler  over  there 
is  a  woman." 

"  A  woman  ?  how  shameful !  "  cried  Mahmoure,  getting 
interested,  and  feeling  all  a  woman's  vindictiveness  against 
the  misdeeds  of  one  of  her  own  sex  rising  within  her  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  reflectively,  "  it  is  shame 
ful,  for  the  boy  over  here  ought  to  be  living  in  elegant  inde- 
pendence, as  they  say,  instead  of  starving  to  satisfy  the  low 
caprice  of  an  utterly  unworthy  woman  over  there." 

"  Caprice  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  doubt  we  should  be  able  to  work  upon  her 
sense  of  right  and  wrong,  but  she  has  married  over  in 
Europe  some  hound  of  a  man  whom  she  supports,  and  there- 


AN  ANGLOMANIAC.  1 3 5 

fore  there  is  no  chance  of  inducing  her  to  surrender  her  ill- 
gotten  wealth." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Hill,  this  is  the  most  abominable  story  I 
ever  heard.  How  can  a  woman  be  so  wicked  ?  and  how  can 
a  man  be  so  mean  ?  " 

"  Should  you  think  it  any  better  or  any  worse  if  the  case 
were  reversed  ?  "  said  he,  rising  and  walking  towards  the 
window.  "  I  mean,  suppose  a  man  kept  a  hard-working 
woman  out  of  her  inheritance  to  support  himself  and  another 
woman  in  luxury  ?  " 

This  was  a  stunner !  It  was  her  own  case  exactly,  and  in 
the  light  in  which  it  constantly  occurred  to  her.  She  looked 
quickly  and  keenly  at  the  gentle,  courteous  creature  who  was 
playing  with  his  gloves,  at  the  window,  standing  so  that  his 
back  was  turned  to  the  light.  Was  this  really  a  true  story 
he  was  telling  her?  or  was  he,  like  some  modern  Machia- 
velli,  touching  off  a  torpedo  of  truth  by  firing  a  fuse  of  fic- 
tion ?  If  he  were,  not  the  slightest  indication  thereof  ap- 
peared on  Mr.  Murray  Hill's  interesting  but  impassive  face, 
and  Mahmoure,  lulled  into  a  sense  of  security,  felt  a  certain 
relief  at  having  someone  to  whom  she  could  cxpiess  her 
views  on  her  own  case,  and  who  would  turn  a  sympathetic 
ear  to  the  cry  of  her  artificially  aroused  conscience.  Arti- 
ficially, I  say,  because  had  she  not  become  so  mysteriously 
identified  with  Daphne  Preault  she  would  never,  in  thought, 
have  swerved  from  her  allegiance  to  Paul  and  his  schemes 
for  his  own  welfare.  So  after  the  first  shock  of  astonish- 
ment was  over,  she  replied  quite  calmly  : 

"  I  don't  think  that  theoretically  it  would  make  any  differ- 
ence to  the  morals  of  the  situation,  but  practically  speaking, 
I  think  it  would  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  For 
a  man  can  always  support  himself,  and  a  woman  cannot 
respect  a  man  who  lives  upon  her.  If  the  position  were 
reversed,  as  you  suggest,  I  am  certain  that  the  woman  who 
was  supported  with  someone  else's  money  could  be  acted 
upon  by  sympathy  for  her  fellow-woman,  and  would  herself 
try  and  induce  the  man  to  make  restitution.  If  he  would 


I  36  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

not  do  it,  and  the  case  were  properly  presented  to  her,  she 
would  even  make  restitution  herself — supposing,  that  is,  that 
the  man  could  support  himself  without  the  other  unfortunate 
woman's  money.  And  even  if  he  couldn't,  I  believe  the 
woman  would  try,  even  if  it  came  to  working  for  herself. 
Ah  !  Mr.  Hill,  I  know  we  women  are  awfully  hard  on  one 
another  when  we  are  in  independent  circumstances,  but  pity 
for  a  really  ill-used  sister  is  a  very  strong  factor  in  many  of 
our  actions." 

Mr.  Murray  Hill  was  very  clever,  and  knew  exactly  where 
to  stop — he  was  not  like  the  amateur  gardener  who  stirs  up 
the  seed  he  has  sown,  with  a  stick,  every  day,  to  see  how  it 
is  getting  on — so  he  stopped  here  and  proceeded  to  change 
the  subject.  We  have  remarked  above  that  he  was  only 
human  after  all,  and  Mahmoure',  attractive  as  she  was,  even 
when  she  was  nearest  to  death,  was  doubly  so  now  that  life 
was  beginning  to  blaze  once  more  from  her  beautiful  eyes. 
So  Mr.  Murray  Hill  was  stricken  with  the  brilliant  inspira- 
tion of  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  replied,  coming 
close  to  the  divan  : 

"  Ah,  madam,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart ;  it  is  such 
women  as  you  that  make  one  think  better  of  humanity  in 
general,  and  of  your  sex  in  particular.  I  bless  the  day  that 
broke  for  me  when  I  had  the  honour  of  making  your 
acquaintance.  A  friend  of  mine  used  to  say  that  he  never 
knew  but  one  woman  who  could  understand  reason,  and  she 
wouldn't  listen  to  it.  You  are  unique,  for  you  both  listen 
and  understand."  And  he  took  her  hand  and  carried  it  to 
his  lips. 

Mahmoure  drew  it  away  somewhat  hastily,  and  arranged 
herself  more  stiffly  on  the  divan. 

"  Why  do  you  take  away  your  hand  ?  "  said  Mr.  Murray 
Hill,  trying  to  get  hold  of  it  again.  "You  cannot  be  so 
cruel  as  to  refuse  my  homage — and  with  such  eyes  as  those 
that  were  made  to  look  in  love,  with  such  lips  as  those  that 
were  made  to  smile  and  kiss." 


A N  ANGLOMANIA  C.  137 

"Mr.  Hill!"  exclaimed  she,  standing  up,  with  a  look  of 
terror  in  the  eyes  he  had  insulted. 

Mr.  Murray  Hill  believed  most  of  the  stories  of  the 
"inconsequence"  (Balzac  again  !)  of  Mahmoure,  and  fancied 
that  the  assumption  of  dignity  was  conjured  up  to  spur  him 
to  fresh  ardour.  At  that  moment  Mahmoure'  heard  the  click 
of  Paul's  latch-key  in  the  outer  door  of  her  "apartment," 
and  the  look  of  terror  gave  place  to  one  of  malicious  cour- 
age. Mr.  Murray  Hill  noted  the  change,  and,  misinterpret- 
ing it  by  reason  of  the  inferiority  of  his  ear,  flung  himself 
on  his  knees  and  tried  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Mr.  Hill !  how  dare  you  ?     Paul !  help  me  !  " 

Paul  had  burst  into  the  room,  and  with  one  bound  had 
caught  the  enterprising  anglomaniac  by  the  collar.  Paul 
was  wiry  if  not  muscular,  whilst  Mr.  Murray  Hill  was  a 
small  man.  Calmly,  and  apparently  without  effort,  he 
dragged  the  gay  Lothario  to  the  front  door,  and  applying  a 
well-aimed  kick  to  that  portion  of  Mr.  Murray  Hill's  person 
especially  constructed  for  the  purpose  by  Providence, 
launched  him  airily  into  Forty-first  Street,  to  the  delight  of 
a  small  crowd  that  was  listening  to  the  elevating  strains  of 
an  itinerant  band,  and  then,  returning,  took  Mr.  Murray 
Hill's  hat,  gloves,  and  cane,  which  he  cast  after  him  onto 
the  sidewalk. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  soliloquized  Mr.  Murray  Hill;  "but  I  have 
suffered  in  a  good  cause.  Firstly,  it  is  clear  that  those  two 
are  something  more  to  one  another  than  merely  casual  lover 
and  mistress ;  secondly,  that  being  the  case,  la  Zulueta  is 
conscience-stricken  over  living  on  the  Preault  money ;  and 
thirdly,  I'll  break  that  blackguard  du  Peyral  with  all  the 
greater  joy  for  this  thrilling  episode.  My  God  !  let  him 
look  out  for  himself  if  his  record  isn't  all  right !  " 

Meanwhile  Paul,  the  excitement  over  and  the  strain 
relieved,  had  sunk  exhausted  onto  Mahmoure's  divan. 
Strange,  surely,  that  a  man  of  such  physique  should  pant  so 
after  a  trifling  exertion  like  the  ejection  of  Mr.  Murray  Hill ! 

"  I  don't   understand    it,"    said    he,    in    answer   to   Mali- 


138  7777f  PKfNCESS  DAPHNE. 

moure's  anxious  inquiry.  "  If,  like  Gautier,  I  could  believe 
in  '  avatar,'  I  should  think  my  soul  were  getting,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  separated  from  my  body.  I  think,  if  my 
bodily  strength  would  weaken  off  with  it,  the  balance  would 
be  maintained  and  my  vitality  would  not  be  so  worn-out,  as 
it  were ;  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  my  soul  were  too  weak  for 
my  body.  I'm  not  ill ;  I'm  not  even  tired  ;  but  all  the  same, 
everything  seems  an  effort  to  me  now." 

"  Oh,  Paul,  Paul,  are  you  sure  it  isn't  this  mesmerism  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  of  course  not !  or  if  it  is,  it  is  only  so  in  a 
very  slight  degree.  Something  is  sapping  my  vitality,  but 
what  it  is,  and  how  the  change  takes  place,  I  cannot  hazard 
a  conjecture  to  explain." 

In  this  respect  Paul  resembled  many  a  student  in  psychol- 
ogy. Absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  result,  his  eyes 
were  blinded  to  the  cause,  proximate  or  ultimate.  A  less 
profound  student  than  he  would  have  suggested  immedi- 
ately that  the  repeated  concentration  of  his  whole  vital  force 
upon  Mahmoure  and  its  transference,  through  her,  to 
Daphne  Pre'ault,  was  gradually  robbing  him  of  his  very  soul. 
The  effect  was  visible  in  his  decreased  vitality,  and  in  the 
gradual  resuscitation,  as  it  were,  of  Mahmoure,  who,  day  by 
day,  regained  the  physique  which  had  been  hers  before  she 
became,  as  every  one  supposed,  a  chronic  invalid.  In 
Daphne  Preault,  a  thousand  leagues  away,  the  change  was 
visible  in  an  infinity  of  almost  inappreciable  ways.  Her 
Creole  nature  kept  coming  out  more  and  more  strongly ; 
little  coarsenesses,  little  brutalities,  piquant,  almost  bewitch- 
ing as  they  were,  would  crop  out  here  and  there  in  her 
language  and  in  her  manner  of  life  ;  and  had  not  the  eyes 
of  Eric  Trevanion  been  blinded  by  his  love,  he  would  have 
noticed  a  fact  that  did  not  escape  those  of  Mrs.  Hawleigh, 
namely  that  the  Princess  Daphne  was  losing  dignity. 

And  Paul  ?  In  him  the  change  was  the  more  curious,  the 
more  complicated.  The  loss  of  his  vitality,  of  his  soul- 
power,  as  it  were,  not  being  the  result  of  any  bodily  ailment, 
of  any  pathological  condition,  his  physique  remained  identi- 


AN  ANGLOMANIA C.  1 39 

cally  the  same.  His  figure  retained  that  blended  grace  and 
strength  which  had  bewitched  Mahmoure',  as  it  had  be- 
witched many  a  woman — though  in  vain — before  her.  His 
muscular  development  was  unimpaired,  but  the  motor  being 
no  longer  of  a  sufficient  strength  for  the  machinery,  a  cer- 
tain listlessness  began  to  steal  over  him,  which  was  attrib- 
uted by  his  friends  to  a  kind  of  nervous  prostration,  by  his 
enemies  to  discouragement  and  an  evil  conscience,  and  by 
Mahmoure — and  she  was  perhaps  nearest  the  truth — to 
exhaustion  caused  by  his  unremitting  labors  of  the  mind. 

It  is  to  this  listlessness  that  may  be  attributed  his  indiff- 
erence to  the  proceedings  of  Mr.  Murray  Hill  and  Miss 
Parthenia  Van  Baulk 'em,  for  though  during  the  next  few 
weeks  after  the  episode  above  recorded  at  Mahmoure's,  he 
heard  vague  rumors  of  the  animosity  of  that  siren  and  of  her 
henchman,  and  of  enquiries  they  had  set  on  foot  concerning 
himself  and  Mahmoure',  and  their  respective  antecedents,  he 
did  not  bother  himself  to  surmise  whither  those  enquiries 
might  lead,  but  devoted  his  time,  in  the  privacy  of  his  own 
apartments,  to  the  tabulation  of  the  notes  for  his  great  work 
on  "  Psychic  Forces,  and  the  influence  of  Mind  upon  Mat- 
ter," which  was  rapidly  approaching  completion  since  he 
had  taken  to  himself,  by  chance  as  it  were,  so  singularly 
gifted  a  collaborateuse  as  Mahmoure  di  Zulueta. 

The  spring  of  the  year  was  growing  old,  and  the  machina- 
tions of  Mr.  Murray  Hill  were  slowly  but  surely  progressing. 
Little  by  little,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Charles  Sturton 
Faker,  who,  acting  in  concert  with  Eric  Trevanion,  kept  him 
posted  on  the  condition  and  position  of  Miss  Daphne  Pre- 
ault,  he  had  pieced  together  the  history  of  Mr.  Paul  du 
Peyral,  and,  this  task  accomplished,  all  that  remained  was 
to  prove  the  marriage  of  that  individual  and  Mahmoure'  di 
Zulueta.  This  task  he  set  about  with  enthusiasm,  receiving, 
by  way  of  advance  reward,  the  approbation  of  Miss  Van 
Baulk'em,  from  an  interview  with  whom  he  one  day  set 
forth  to  find  the  before-referred-to  Tom  Morrison,  his  pulses 
dancing  wildly,  his  fingers  still  warm  with  the  pressure  of  the 


140  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

fair  Parthenia's  unresisting  if  not  encouraging  hand,  dazed 
with  the  minion  of  divers  blandishments  which  not  even 
the  iudisc1  dun  *.  f  the  novelist  can  reveal,  and  which  had 
been  lavished  upon  him  by  the  siren,  "  for  the  benefit  of 
Charlie,"  of  course,  but  in  no  wise  the  less  fascinating  to 
Mr.  Murray  Hill  on  that  account.  Entre  nous,  dear  reader, 
it  had  dimly  occurred  to  Mr.  Murray  Hill  that,  in  the  first 
place,  his  own  income  was  only  sufficient  for  his  own  main- 
tenance in  elegant  leisure  ;  in  the  second  it  was  a  pity  that 
Miss  Parthenia's  millions  should  be  bestowed  upon  an  alien  ; 
and — Miss  Parthenia  having  been  more  or  less  successfully 
chaperoned  through  a  London  season  by  a  lady  who  had 
hidden  most  of  Parthenia's  vulgarity  beneath  the  asgis  of 
her  own  pure-blooded  aristocracy  of  birth  and  nature,  the 
said  young  woman  having  in  turn  suppressed  her  failures 
and  exaggerated  her  successes  with  artistic  mendacity — 
in  the  third,  that  it  would  be  an  excellent  scheme  to  marry 
that  young  woman  himself,  preparatory  to  carrying  her  over 
to  London,  where,  according  to  her  own  account,  she  had  a 
certain  apocryphal  social  position,  and  where  he  could 
gradually  cut  himself  and  her  free  from  the  associations  of 
her  horrible  family. 

He  knew  that  it  would  be  difficult  if  not  impossible  for 
him  to  hold,  personally,  any  further  communication  with 
Mahmoure  ;  but  he  bore  very  minutely  in  mind  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  way  she  had  received  his  carefully  prepared  story 
of  the  ill-used  Englishman,  and  felt  that,  if  properly  ap- 
proached, she  might  become  an  ally  most  important  in  the 
subversion  of  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral ;  and  having  occupied  a 
few  more  weeks  in  collecting  evidence  in  a  manner  which  is 
too  obvious  to  need  recapitulation  here — such  as  searching 
the  registers  at  Niagara  and  so  on — Mahmoure  was  one 
morning  aroused  to  the  contemplation  of  her  matutinal 
coffee,  flanked  by  an  envelope  bearing  upon  its  upper  left- 
hand  corner  the  name  and  address  of  an  eminent  legal  firm, 
addressed  to  her  in  the  alarming  legibility  of  the  Remington 
type-writer. 


AN  ANGLOMANIAC.  \  \  \ 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  alarms  a  woman  more  than  a 
mouse  or  a  telegram,  and  that  is  an  obviously  "  business  ' 
communication.  Little  wonder  therefore  that  Mahmoure', 
rousing  herself  into  vivid  wakefulness  and  a  sitting  position 
among  the  pink-silk  sheets  of  her  pretty  dortoir,  neglected 
the  ridiculous  in  favour  of  the  sublime,  and  forgot  her  coffee 
in  contemplation  of  the  "  lawyer's  letter." 

If  the  outside  had  disturbed  her,  how  much  more  the 
rnside,  which  read  as  follows  : 

Offices  of  SELIGMAN,  SEARCHER,  &  CERTIORARI. 
No.  195  Nassau  St.,  NEW  YORK  CITY. 
[Two  enclosures^  2$d  May,  18 — 

DEAR  MADAME  : 

Information  which  has  recently  come  to  hand 
prompts  us  to  write  to  you  for  corroboration  or  explanation 
on  a  subject  which  is  of  the  last  importance,  both  to  clients 
of  ours  and  to  yourself,  and  we  trust  you  will  answer  our  com- 
munication in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  made,  with  a  view  to 
saving  all  parties  concerned  the  annoyance  and  expense  of 
complicated  legal  proceedings.  Without  wishing  to  trouble 
you  with  details  upon  a  matter  with  which  you  may  or  may 
not  be  already  familiar,  it  is  necessary  to  state  that  the  mar- 
riage of  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral  entails  certain  consequences 
and  duties  upon  the  executors  and  beneficiaries  of  the  estate 
of  the  late  Casimir  Preault  of  Baton  Rouge  in  Louisiana. 
From  information  which  has  been  put  into  our  hands  it  ap- 
pears that  in  the  fall  of  last  year  you  were  privately  married 
to  this  gentleman  in  the  village  of  Niagara,  Ontario,  Canada. 
We  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  sign  and  return  to  us  one  of  the 
enclosed  documents,  to  wit,  the  acknowledgment  of  that 
marriage,  or  its  specific  denial. 

We  are,  dear  Madame, 

Yours  faithfully, 
SELIGMAN,  SEARCHER,  &  CERTIORARI. 

To  MADAME  DI  ZULUETA, 

No. —  West  Forty-First  Street,  City. 


142  THE  PRINCESS  DATHXE. 

To  say  that  Mahmoure  was  frightened  by  this  ominous 
missive  is  to  employ  a  miserably  inadequate  term,  and  one 
in  no  sense  fitted  to  the  state  of  the  case.  Hardly  conscious 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  dressed  herself  with  lightning 
rapidity,  and  flew  as  fast  as  an  American  hansom  could  take 
her,  over  the  boulderous  moraines  known  in  New  York  by 
the  euphemism,  "  streets,"  and  arrived  breathless  with  ex- 
citement, at  the  door  of  Paul's  flat,  where  she  admitted  her- 
self with  her  latch-key.  Into  the  dining-room,  lest  he  should 
be  at  breakfast — Paul  was  not  there ;  into  the  study,  lest  he 
should  be  already  at  work — Paul  was  not  there  ;  through  the 
portieres  of  the  study,  into  his  bedroom,  lest  Paul  should  not 
yet  have  risen — and  there  she  found  him. 

Asleep  ? — surely  not ;  for  he  lay  motionless  and  senseless 
as  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by  his  side.  In  vain  she 
strove  to  arouse  him  from  his  lethargy;  in-vains  he  implored 
him  to  open  his  eyes,  which  she  covered  with  kisses.  In  an 
agony  she  tore  down  the  bed-clothes  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  heart ;  a  feeble,  intermittent  beat  was  the  only  sign  which 
her  husband  gave  her  to  tell  her  he  was  still  alive. 

Paul  du  Peyral  lay  dying. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CLOUDS. 

"  WHAT  I  say  is  this,"  remarked  Gerome  Markham,  as  he 
dallied  with  a  muffin  and  a  cigarette  in  the  Eastons'  studio, 
one  warm  spring  afternoon  :  "  morality  is  a  question  of  geo- 
graphy, and  whilst  not,  perhaps,  advocating  the  same  latitude 
of  action  as  that  implied  by  the  motto  of  the  monks  of  Med- 
enham,  *  fay  {e  quevouldrasj  still,  in  the  Bohemia  of  Holland 
Street,  the  red,  white,  and  black  flag  covers  a  multitude  of 
trifles  that  would  be  sins  in  West  Kensington,  crimes  in  the 
provinces,  and  eminently  good  form  in  St.  James's.  And  on 
the  principle  that  we  have  adopted  as  a  precept,  '  live  and 
let  live,'  I  don't  see  what  we  have  to  do  with  Eric  Trevanion 
and  the  Princess  Daphne." 

"  Well,  to  a  great  extent  I  agree  with  you,  but  it  does  seem 
strange  that  Daphne  Preaults  who  has  rather  gone  in  for 
taking  a  high  moral  ground,  should  get  herself  so  very  un- 
pleasantly talked  about,"  responded  Sylvia  Easton.  "  Give 
me  of  your  light,  for  like  that  of  the  foolish  virgin,  my  cigar- 
ette has  gone  out !  " 

"  After  all,  you  know,"  observed  Dick  Lindsay,  who,  from 
a  distant  corner,  beamed  through  his  spectacles  on  the  other 
three,  to  wit,  Sylvia  and  Eva  Easton 'and  Gerome  Markham, 
"  a  little  scandal — un  tout  petit  scandalorama,  as  Vautrin 
would  say,  has  the  inestimable  advantages  of  an  advertise- 
ment, and  would  give  an  additional  value  to  the  Princess' 
autograph." 

"  Well,  you'd  better  collect  it  at  once,"  said  Eva  Easton, 
"  for  Mr.  Baker  says  she's  got  a  grand  lawsuit  coming  on  in 
America,  which  will  probably  make  her  retire  into  wealthy 
insignificance.  Do  you  collect  autographs,  Mr.  Lindsay  ?  " 

143 


144  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  Not  personally  ;  I  used  to  collect  them  once  for  a  great- 
aunt  from  whom  I  had  '  expectations,'  but  when  one  day  I 
sent  her  a  slab  of  plaster,  with  '  Mem,  Mene,  Tekel,  Uphar- 
sin '  scratched  on  it,  and  signed  '  BelshazzarJ  she  left  off 
collecting,  as  she  said  it  was  too  great  a  strain  on  my  inven- 
tive faculties.  She  then  proceeded  to  make  a  new  will  and 
die — I  got  nothing  but  her  autograph  album." 

"  Well,  you  uught  to  be  thankful  for  small  mercies." 

"  Yes,  like  the  man  who  had  gout  in  both  feet  and  thanked 
God  he  wasn't  a  centipede  !  But  unfortunately  I'm  not.  I'm 
sure  I  was  meant  to  live  a  life  of  dignified  ease,  not  to  drive 
myself  melancholy-mad  by  writing  cast-iron  humour  from 
morn  till  dewy  eve,  from  dewy  eve  till  deuced  late.  But  still, 
it  might  be  worse.  Just  fancy  being  '  something  in  the  city,' 
like  your  friend  whom  you  mentioned  just  now,  Mr.  Charles 
Sturton-Baker." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Sylvia  Easton,  "there  isn't  much  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Baker,  except  the  hyphen  in  his  name — and 
that's  harmless.  He  makes  a  great  deal  of  money,  which  is 
more  than  we  do  !  " 

"  Ah,  you'd  better  get  his  recipe  for  us,"  observed  Mark- 
ham. 

"  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,"  said  Eva  ;  "  consider  her 
ways  and  be  awakened  to  the  error  of  your  own." 

"  That's  just  it,"  returned  Lindsay ;  "  I  havn't  got  any 
aunt — and  when  I  had,  I  used  to  wake  her  up  a  good  deal 
more  than  she  did  me." 

"  Oh,  how  dare  you  ?  To  pun  is  human  ;  to  forgive,  divine. 
However,  I'll  forgive  you,"  said  Sylvia,  "  and  if  you're  good, 
I'll  get  Mr.  Baker's  recipe  for  you — or  Eric's." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  want  either  of  them,  for  they 
seem  very  similar.  Baker  is  always  swaggering  about  some 
drivellingly  idiotic  American  heiress  or  other,  that  he  declares 
is  madly  in  love  with  him,  poor  little  thing!  And  it  strikes 
me  that  if  Travanion /&ri  knew  much  about  his  hopeful  son, 
he'd  cut  off  the  supplies  ;  perhaps  that's  why  Eric  is  so 
anxious  to  secure  the  Princess'  fortune  for  her." 


CLOUDS.  145 

"  For  shame,  Dick  !  "  said  Eva.  "  If  you  could  catch  an 
heiress,  you'd. do  it  on  the  spot,  I  k^ow." 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  he,  shamelessly.  "  Why,  here  I  am, 
positively  dying  of  love  tor  you,  Eva,  and  we've  nothing  to 
live  on  but  bread  and  cheese,  with  kisses,  whereof  the  first  is 
not  nice  in  excess,  and  the  second  isn't  nourishing  in  any 
quantity." 

"  Sorry  I  spoke,"  remarked  Eva,  blushing  nevertheless  a 
lively  crimson,  as  Dick  Lindsay  continued  to  beam  on  her 
through  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

"  Those  two  will  quarrel  in  a  minute,"  said  Sylvia ;  "  they 
always  do.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Markham,  how  are  the  Hawleighs 
getting  on  ? " 

"  Ah  !  there's  a  happy  family  for  you,  if  you  like.  There's 
no  getting  over  the  fact  that  '  Sunshine  in  the  Fog*  is  the 
picture  of  the  year  ;  and  now  Gabriel  floats  in  golden  seas. 
Dealers  and  amateurs  vie  with  one  another  to  buy  his  work, 
and  unless  his  health  gives  out,  we  shall  see  our  dear  boy 
both  rich  and  celebrated  in  a  very  short  time." 

"  Ah  !  and  then  I  suppose  he'll  marry  Maye  Trevethick?  " 

"Oh, /&»J/  tiens  !  tiens  !  how  indiscreet  you  are!  The 
idea  of  a  young  woman  announcing  as  a  fact  what  we  all 
know — but  keep  to  ourselves.  Of  course  he'll  marry  Miss 
Trevethick,  and  he'll  be  a  jolly  lucky  fellow  ;  but  we  shall 
all  be  delightedly  surprised  when  it's  announced." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Eva  Easton,  pensively,  as  she  bent 
over  her  work,  "  I  always  had  an  idea  that  she  was  in  love 
with  Eric." 

"  I  hope  not,  for  all  their  sakes,"  returned  Gerome  Mark- 
ham.  "In  the  first  place,  Eric  has  only  one  idea  in  the 
world,  and  that's  Daphne  Prdault ;  in  the  second,  it  would 
break  poor  Gabriel's  heart ;  and  in  the  third,  it  would  be 
very  ungrateful  of  her,  for  without  the  Hawleighs  she'd  have 
been  obliged  to  go  out  as  a  governess  or  companion,  or 
something." 

"  Pooh  !  "  exclaimed  Eva,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Dick 
Lindsay  ;  "  what  has  gratitude  to  do  with  it  ?  " 


146  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  Unfortunately  nothing,"  replied  Markham,  gravely  ;  and 
he  rose  to  go. 

Lindsay  followed  his  example,  and  the  two  men  left  to- 
gether. 

Outside  the  door  Lindsay  remarked  :  "  I  say,  Markham,  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  things  in  this  street.  The  Princess  is 
compromising  herself  badly,  and  Eric's  letting  himself  drift ; 
one  of  these  days  he'll  be  pulled  up  short.  And  I'm  afraid 
there's  something  in  what  Eva  said  about  Maye  Trevethick 
caring  about  him." 

"  Well,"  replied  Markham,  as  they  parted  to  go  in  oppo- 
site directions,  "  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  not.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  see  Gabriel  and  Maye  wreck  their  lives  ;  but  I  fear 
Eric  is  doing  that  same,  even  now.  '  Who  lives  will  see ! ' 
An  reroirf" 

From  the  above  conversation,  which  was  only  one  out  of 
many  like  unto  it  which  the  eaves-dropping  walls  of  Holland 
Street  overheard  about  this  time,  the  reader  will  have 
gathered  to  a  certain  extent  how  matters  stood  with  the 
quartette  in  whom  we  are  mainly  interested.  The  doors  of 
Burlington  House  had  opened  on  the  first  Monday  in  May 
to  a  crowd  that  were  unanimous  in  their  verdict  upon  Ga- 
briel's picture  as  "  the  picture  of  the  year,"  and  Gabriel  had 
the  remunerative  work  of  a  lustrum  on  his  hands,  in  the 
commissions  showered  upon  him  by  European  and  American 
patrons  of  art.  The  days  of  struggle  and  genteel  poverty 
seemed  to  have  ended  for  him,  and  it  was  with  the  new  light 
of  a  great  tenderness  in  his  eyes  that,  nowadays,  he  would 
watch  Maye  at  work  in  her  corner  of  the  studio,  whilst  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  regarded  the  consummation  of  her  hopes  as  prac- 
tically within  her  reach,  and  felt  that  she  was  amply  re- 
warded for  the  sacrifices  she  had  made  at  the  altar  of  her 
son's  genius. 

As  for  Maye,  the  only  change  in  her  was  one  which 
was  sedulously  hidden  from  the  outer  world,  for  she  con- 
cealed the  excitement  that  an  intuitive  sense  of  the  ap- 
proach of  a  crisis  in  her  life  caused  her  in  her  heart — her 


CLOUDS.  147 

heart,  which  concealed  also  the  dull,  deathly  pain  that  she 
suffered  when  she  thought,  or  anyone  spoke  to  her,  of  Eric. 
But  her  home-life  seemed  even  purer  and  sweeter  than  here- 
tofore, and  rilled  her  often  with  a  dim,  soft  melancholy, 
when,  at  the  death  of  the  daylight,  she  would  sit  down  to 
the  piano  in  the  studio,  and  Gabriel  would  follow  her  into  an 
ecstasy  of  music  with  his  violin,  which  was  now  his  one 
fondly  cherished  recreation. 

Often  they  would  wander  among  the  harmonies  of 
Chopin,  of  Beethoven,  of  Kalliwoda,  of  De  Beriot,  of 
Brahms,  and  of  the  other  masters  ;  but  more  often  Maye 
would  lead  off  with  an  improvised  theme,  and  Gabriel,  tak- 
ing it  up,  would  follow  her  through  its  variations  and  mod- 
ulations, until,  trembling  all  over,  he  would  fall  on  the 
lounge  in  the  altitude  of  the  painting  in  Daphne's  studio,  and 
lie  silent  and  happy,  whilst  Maye  resolved  the  harmonies  of 
the  theme  as  it  died  away  under  her  fingers. 

"  Maye,"  said  he,  one  day,  as  the  music  ceased,  "  how 
strange  it  is  that  you  and  I  should  think  as  it  were  with  one 
brain  when  we  play !  Do  you  know,  dear,  it  seems  to  me 
sometimes  almost  eerie  that  such  a  perfect  sympathy  should 
exist  between  us.  How  is  it,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,  Gabriel,"  she  replied,  a  strange  feeling 
seizing  her  heart,  and  driving  the  blood,  it  seemed  to  her, 
into  her  throat.  "  I  suppose  it  is  that  we  live  here  in  such 
perfect  accord — we  three — that  the  same  thoughts  occur  to 
us  when  we  play,  and  express  themselves  in  our  music." 

"  Ah  !  pray  God  that  you  speak  the  truth,  Maye.  Some- 
times, do  you  know,  the  thought  comes  to  me  that  it  may  all 
cease  suddenly,  and  that  we  might  be  separated ;  and  the 
thought  is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  Maye,"  he  con- 
tinued, earnestly,  and  coming  closer  to  her,  "  you  have  been 
more  than  a  sister  to  me  since  you  have  been  here  with  us  ; 
you  know,  don't  you,  dear,  that  I  feel  more  than  a  brother 
to  you.  For  I  love  you  very  dearly,  sweetheart ;  you  have 
guessed  that,  haven't  you  ?  I've  never  told  you  so,  for  we've 
been  so  poor,  though  it's  been  on  my  lips  a  thousand  times, 


148  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

and  in  my  heart  always.  But  now,  thank  God,  it  seems  as 
if  a  change  had  come,  and  even  if  we  are  not  rich,  we  shall 
be  quite  independent.  Can  you  love  me  a  little  in  this 
newer,  sweeter  way,  darling  ?  Heaven  knows  that  the  only 
joy  I  can  find  in  my  life  lies  in  the  thought  that  I  can  lay  it 
at  your  feet — will  you  take  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Gabriel !  " 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  so  soon,  but  to  me 
it  seems  as  if  I  had  waited,  oh  !  so  long,  for  to-day ;  but  I 
have  an  excuse  for  speaking,  dear — I  love  you  so."  He 
sank  on  his  knee  by  her  side,  and  slipping  his  arm  around 
her  waist,  covered  the  hand  that  lay  in  her  lap  with  kisses. 

She  looked  straight  before  her,  with  a  dry,  far  away  look  in 
her  eyes,  answering  never  a  word,  but  clasping  the  hand 
that  encircled  her  waist,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  draw  it 
closer  round  her,  or  to  fling  it  away. 

"  Answer  me,  darling,  won't  you  ? — or  shall  I  wait  ?  "  said 
he  at  last,  trembling  for  her  great  silence. 

"  No,  you  must  not  wait  any  longer,  dear ;  what  can  I  say 
to  you  ?  You  and  the  madre  have  been  so  good  to  me  that 
if  I  can  make  you  happy  in  return,  I  have  no  right  to  deny 
what  you  ask  of  me,  even  though  it  be  my  life — myself." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  like  that,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet ; 
"  don't  think  of  gratitude,  dear.  You  know  that  I  shall  love 
you  just  the  same,  even  if  you  cannot  think  me  worthy  of 
you  as  your  husband.  If  you  will  come  to  me  and  be  the 
light  of  my  life,  let  it  be  in  love,  and  not  in  dull,  cold  grati- 
tude. Oh  !  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  darling," 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  as  she  also  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  turning,  faced  him  as  he  stood,  a  great  half-fearful  joy 
in  his  eyes.  And  then  she  put  both  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looking  up  at  him,  answered,  gravely  : 

"  Yes,  Gabriel,  I  love  you  very  dearly,  and  I  will  be  your 
wife  if  you  want  me  to." 

His  answer  was  to  clasp  her  wildly  in  his  arms,  and  then, 
as  she  broke  from  him  and  ran  out  of  the  stuuio,  he  sank 


CLOUDS.  149 

once  more  upon  the  lounge,  almost  unconscious  with  the  ex- 
quisite joy  of  the  moment  that  made  her  his. 

And  she  ? 

She  ran  up  to  her  own  room,  and  flinging  herself  upon  her 
bed,  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

She  had  never  realized  perhaps  till  that  moment  how  she 
loved  Eric  Trevanion. 

******* 

Meanwhile  the  days  that  came  and  went  brought  little 
change  to  Eric  and  Daphne,  so  far  as  their  love  for  one 
another  was  concerned  ;  but  already  there  had  crept  into  it 
those  tiny  carelessnesses  which  seem  to  be  the  fate  of  love 
.after  the  first  flush  of  its  dawn  has  paled  into  the  broad  day- 
light of  custom.  This,  however,  did  not  affect  Eric  so  much 
as  the  terror  that  sometimes  took  possession  of  him — a  terror 
that  some  horrible  change  was  taking  place  in  the  soul  of 
the  Princess  whom  he  had  elevated  to  be  his  Queen. 

There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  humiliating  as  is  the  confes- 
sion, that  there  is  something  singularly  unpleasant  to  man 
about  maladies  of  all  kinds.  If  anyone  shows  symptoms  of 
faintness  or  other  distress,  in  a  party,  the  men  get  perfectly 
miserable  with  nervousness.  Not  so  the  women  ;  they,  as  it 
were,  gird  themselves  together  and  watch,  vulture-like,  for 
the  moment  at  which  their  services  will  be  required.  This 
difference  comes  out  equally  in  conversation.  What  is  so  in- 
teresting to  the  female  mind  as  a  discussion  of  the  maladies 
to  which  the  conversants  and  their  friends  are  subject,  the  ep- 
idemics of  infantile  diseases  which  have  attacked  such  and 
such  families  of  their  acquaintance  ?  Not  so  the  man.  Man 
A.  says  to  man  B.,  "  How's  C  ?  "  "  Oh,  C  !  poor  devil !  some- 
thing wrong  with  him,  I  believe.  Had  measles  and  went  out 
riding,  got  thrown  and  broke  three  ribs,  got  a  chill  lying  on 
the  grass,  and  the  worry  of  it  all  gave  him  brain  fever ! 
Come  and  have  a  glass  of  sherry — going  to  the  D.'s  this 
evening?  "  Now  this  would  have  formed  the  subject  of  an 
hour's  conversation  to  Mrs.  A.  and  Mrs.  B.,  with  illustrations 


1  50  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

of  what  happened  to  C.,  what  Dr.  E.  had  said  about  him,  and 
the  remedies  exhibited. 

From  all  of  which  the  reader  will  gather  that  the  nervous 
and  sometimes  almost  hysterical  state  into  which  the  Princess 
Daphne  was  getting,  by  consequence  of  her  repeated  "  mad 
attacks,"  as  Eric  used  to  playfully  say  and  seriously  think, 
was  not  so  much  a  cause  of  pity  to  him  as  one  of  nervous 
irritation ;  and  when  he  saw  them  coming  on  he  would  dis- 
semble and  fly  ;  and  when  she  described  them  to  him,  he 
used  to  pay  little  or  no  attention,  or  laugh  at  her.  There- 
fore the  account  of  her  visions  fell  flat  when  she  told  him  of 
them,  and  he  merely  put  them  down  to  a  higher  development 
of  her  nervous  condition,  which  the  doctor  who  has  before 
been  mentioned  still  ascribed  to  "  a  trifling  indigestion,  a 
slight  derangement  of  the  stomach  which  this  draught  will 
effectually,"  etc.,  etc. — "  seven- and-six-pence — thank  you !  " 

But  Clyde  listened  with  weird-struck  ears  to  the  account 
of  how,  three  times  at  least,  Daphne  had  been  awakened  by 
an  indefinable  sensation  that  something  was  looking  at  her 
— of  how,  on  clearing  from  her  eyes  the  mists  of  sleep,  she 
had  seen  before  her  the  figure  of  a  lithe,  supple,  but  withal 
beautiful  woman  who  looked  at  her  out  of  great  soft  brown 
eyes,  which,  so  far  from  frightening  the  Princess,  rather 
attracted  and  soothed  her  than  otherwise ;  and  Eric  felt 
almost  alarmed  at  the  importance  she  ascribed  to  these 
visitations,  and  almost  annoyed  at  the  quasi-affectionate 
interest  she  took  in  what  she  playfully  called  "  her  ghost." 

However,  a  more  serious  consideration  had  crept  into  the 
politics  of  the  Eric-Daphne  manage.  We  have  said  that  Eric 
lived  in  somewhat  princely  style  in  the  colony,  on  the  liberal 
allowance  made  him  by  his  father.  Now  the  elder  Trevan- 
ion  was  an  individual  most  easy  to  get  on  with  so  long  as  he 
wasn't  contradicted ;  but  differ  from  him  on  a  course  to  be 
adopted,  and  the  firmness  on  which  he  prided  himself,  cas- 
tled in  his  old  Cornish  manor,  became  divided  from  pig- 
headedness  by  a  line  bf  demarcation  that  was  fearfully  slight. 
In  the  earliest  days  of  the  love  of  Eric  and  Daphne,  Trevan- 


CLOUDS.  151 

ion/<?r<?  gave  an  entertainment  "  to  the  county,"  and  as  was 
his  wont,  sent  for  Eric,  as  his  son  and  heir,  to  assist  in 
entertaining  the  innocuous  magnates  who  (their  names 
beginning,  almost  to  a  man,  with  the  ancestral  Cornish 
syllables,  Tre,  Pol,  and  Pen)  considered  that  to  be  a  Corn- 
ishman  was  to  live,  whilst  to  be  anything  else  was  merely  to 
exist — on  sufferance.  Eric,  like  an  historic  prototype,  an- 
swered that  "he  could  not  come,"  and  having  nailed  his  col- 
ours— or  rather  Daphne's  colour's,  the  red,  white,  and  black 
of  Bohemia — to  the  mast,  just  didn't.  Trevanion  pere  was 
much  annoyed,  and  began  to  make  enquiries  into  what 
could  possibly  keep  Eric  in  London  when  he  wanted  him  at 
Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor.  The  result  of  his  enquiries  was 
that  his  letters  to  Eric  began  to  hint  at  a  proximate  return  to 
Trthwwsthpllgg,  and  an  ultimate  marriage  and  culminating 
respectability  of  behaviour,  with  solemn  dinner-parties  and 
grandchildren  at  recurring  intervals.  To  these  suggestions 
Eric  replied  at  first  not  at  all,  then  playfully,  then  sarcastic- 
ally, then  seriously,  with  a  point-blank  prayer  to  the  governor 
not  to  talk  bosh. 

As  an  immediate  result,  Eric  was  apprised  that  if  he  did 
not  at  once  return  home  and  marry  a  Cornish  maiden,  and 
give  other  trifling  evidences  of  submission  to  parental  author- 
ity, the  supplies  would  be  cut  off,  and  the  commissariat 
would  dry  up.  "  There  can  only  be  one  excuse  for  you  to 
remain  in  London,"  papa  Trevanion  had  said  in  this  let- 
ter, "and  that  is,  that  you  have  found  idiots  sufficiently 
weak  to  buy  your  pictures,  or  editors  sufficiently  courageous 
in  their  ignorance  to  buy  your  articles  on  the  '  Potentiality 
of  the  But,'  and  so  on.  You  therefore  can  get  on  without 
an  allowance  from  me,  and  from  this  quarter  it  ceases." 

And  so  Eric  found  himself  in  the  exciting  condition  of  hav- 
ing to  make  his  own  living — or  dying — by  his  own  unaided 
exertions. 

Here  was  naturally  food  for  thought,  and  for  a  couple  of 
days  Eric  was  very  thoughtful.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  as 
he  sat  idle  at  his  desk  in  Daphne's  studio,  she  came  up  be- 


152  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

hind  him,  and,  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck,  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  and  said: 

"Eric,  you  are  not  kind  ;  there's  something  on  your  mind 
that  you  haven't  told  me  anything  about.  What  is  it,  old 
man  ? " 

"Oh,  nothing  of  importance,  dear,  "  he  had  replied,  a  little 
wearily. 

So  she  had  insisted,  using  the  thousand  arguments  and 
persuasions  that  a  woman  who  knows  her  power  can  use 
with  impunity,  until  at  last,  taking  the  letter  above  referred 
to  from  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  her  without  a  word.  In 
similar  silence  she  read  it  through  and  returned  it  to  him. 

"Well?"  he  said,  finding  that  she  made  no  remark. 

"  Have  you  any  money  of  your  very  own — independently 
of  the  governor  ? " 

"  Not  a  penny.  " 

"  Good  !  you  will  have  to  make  some.  " 

"  How  ? " 

"  Why,  by  writing  stuff  that  will  sell,  of  course.  " 

"  Well,  I've  been  trying  to  do  that  for  months,  "  he  replied, 
"  and  I  dont  seem  to  have  got  the  knack  of  it  yet.  " 

"Of  course  not,  "  returned  Daphne,  "because  you  haven't 
absolutely  required  to  sell  your  work.  Now  you  do,  and  you 
must  adopt  a  different  style.  " 

"  It  strikes  me  I  shall  have  to  adopt  a  different  style  of 
existence  altogether.  I  don't  see  how  I  am  to  go  on  spend- 
ing a  thousand  a  year  on  nothing  per  annum,  paid  quarterly." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you,  Eric.  Your  days  of  amateur 
literature  are  over ;  you  must  descend  from  the  altitude  of 
transcendental  essay  to  the  dead  level  of  the  pot-boiler. 
You  must  write  stories  for  the  magazines  and  articles  for 
the  reviews ;  paragraphs  for  society  papers,  and  political 
squibs.  You  are  no  longer  Samuel  Rogers,  you  are  Lucien 
de  Rubempre'.  " 

"What's  the  use,  Daph?  the  editors  will  '  regret  that  want 
of  space  prevents,'  etc.,  etc.,  as  heretofore.  I  was  never 
Samuel  Rogers,  and  I  wont  stoop  to  copy  Balzac's  gentle 


CLOUDS.  153 

hero.  Why,  only  yesterday  I  got  a  letter  with  the  stamp  of 
Smith's  Monthly  on  it.  I  didn't  even  open  it,  I  knew  so 
well  what's  in  it.  " 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  asked  Daphne,  a  queer  look  coming  into 
her  eyes,  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  it's  here  somewhere — here  it  is,  "  said  he,  giving  it 
to  her. 

"Ah !  "  said  she,  opening  it ;  "  this  was  unimportant  yes- 
terday or  the  day  before.  It  isn't  so  insignificant  now. 
Your  article  on  '  Atlantis  and  Yucatan  '  is  accepted,  and 
you  will  get  the  proofs  in  a  day  or  two.  " 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  why,  those  people  refused  it 
once. " 

"  Well,  they've  seen  the  error  of  their  ways,  that's  all, " 
replied  the  Princess,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Now,  look  here, 
Eric;  you've  got  to  take  this  matter  into  your  own  hands 
'  right  now,'  as  we  say  in  America.  This  letter  proves  that  if 
you  will  only  take  my  advice,  you'll  get  on  all  right.  In  the 
first  place,  you  have  the  finest  studio  in  Holland  Street.  You 
don't  paint,  and  you  don't  want  it,  except  to  spend  money 
in ;  you  haven't  got  the  money  to  spend  now,  so  you  don't 
want  the  studio,  and  you  must  give  it  up.  Oh  !  don't  make 
faces ;  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  Just  opposite,  there 
are  a  couple  of  rooms  both  vacant  and  cheap.  You  can 
make  them  very  pretty  and  comfortable  with  some  of  the  stuff 
you've  got  in  your  studio,  and  you  must  move  in  at  once  and 
set  to  work  in  earnest.  " 

"  But,  Daph,  I  can't  suddenly  proclaim  myself  a  pauper." 

"  That  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  you  are  one,  dear.  " 

"  Please,  don't." 

"  But  you  are,  Eric." 

"  Well,  if  I  can't  afford  to  live  in  the  old  place,  how  can  I 
in  the  new  ?  " 

"  Why,  very  easily.  In  the  first  place  you  are  going  to 
make  money  by  writing,  and  until  you  have  made  it,  I  have 
plenty.  Besides,  my  solicitor,  or  rather  the  solicitor  to  my 
second  cousin's  estate,  tells  me  that  he  thinks  that  that 


I  54  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

money  will  come  to  me  after  all,  in  a  short  time.  I  suppose 
Paul  du  Peyral  has  grown  tired  of  bachelorhood  at  last.  We 
have  plenty  to  live  on,  in  any  case." 

"  Thank  you  !  I  don't  want  it  to  be  said  that  the  moment 
I  got  poor  I  married  you  for  your  money." 

"  Married  !  Good  heavens  !  who  talks  of  marrying  ?  we're 
very  happy  as  we  are.  The  only  difference  will  be  that 
when  you  were  rich  you  spent  your  money  on  me,  and  now 
you  are  poor,  I  spend  mine  on  you.  Nobody  need  know 
anything  about  it !  " 

"  Daphne  !  by  Jupiter,  you  do  want  me  to  become  Lucien 
de  Rubempre'  in  a  hurry.  Do  you  imagine  that  I — /,  Eric 
Trevanion,  am  going  to  live  upon  you  ?  Hush  ! — not  a  word 
more  if  you  please  on  the  subject ;  you  insult  me — uninten- 
tionally, I  know;  but  your  proposition  is  an  insult  all  the 
same.  Don't  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  "  He  had  risen  and 
was  pacing  feverishly  up  and  down  the  room.  At  her 
answer  he  came  to  a  dead  full  stop  in  front  of  her. 

"  Not  in  the  least ! "  she  said,  calmly ;  "  I  prefer  to  remain 
as  I  am  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  what  am  I  coming  to  ? "  he  cried.  "  Never 
dare  to  make  such  a  suggestion  to  me  again — you  hear ! — 
never  dare. " 

"  Eric — I  dare  anything.  I  love  you,  and  I  intend  to  make 
a  great  man  of  you.  You  have  all  the  possibilities,  and  if 
you  will  take  my  advice,  you  are  bound  to  succeed.  For 
the  moment,  however,  you  want  my  help.  It  is  yours  to 
take — and  mark  me,  my  mind  is  made  up.  " 

"  Well — so  is  mine.  It  is  useless  to  prolong  this  discus- 
sion— we  shall  not  agree.  I  am  going  home  now  to  think 
matters  over  a  little.  When  I  come  back,  don't  let  me 
hear  any  more  of  this  preposterous  thing.  Perhaps  I  am 
going  to  be  successful — well,  success  means  independence, 
and  I  z£//7/be  independent.  Au  revoir" 

"  Au  revoir"  she  said,  lazily  stretching  herself  in  the 
divan  as  he  left  the  studio.  And  ten  minutes  after,  the 


CLOUDS.  155 

Princess,  with  a  little  ironical  smile  on  her  lips,  had  fallen 
fast  asleep ! 

Later  in  the  afternoon  he  burst  in  upon  her,  pale  with 
anger,  and  with  a  roll  of  proof-slips  in  his  hand. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  this  article  of  mine  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  by  way  of  greeting. 

"  Making  it  salable,  cher  ami"  she  replied,  with  a  grin. 

"  Making  it  vulgar,  you  mean.  How  dare  you  interfere 
with  my  work  ?  You  can  talk  as  much  as  you  like ;  fortun- 
ately I  have  sufficient  self-respect  not  to  take  your  advice ; 
but  oblige  me  by  leaving  my  work  as  I  finish  it.  I  shall 
alter  these  proofs  so  as  to  make  them  resemble,  at  any  rate, 
my  original  manuscript — let  this  be  the  first  and  last  per- 
formance of  this  little  comedy." 

"  Do  as  you  like,  Eric.  If  you  like  to  make  a  fool  of 
yourself,  do.  Your  stuff  will  only  be  re-rejected  at  the  last 
moment." 

"Time  will  show.  Now,  let  us  drop  the  second  unpleasant 
subject  that  has  arisen  between  us  to-day.  I  wonder  you 
can  worry  me  so,  when  you  know  I  have  so  much  on  my 
mind  !  "  he  concluded,  querulously. 

"  Well,  well,  darling,  I  did  it  for  the  best,  and  I  hope  that 
in  time  you  will  come  to  look  at  things  as  I  do ;  meanwhile 
we  wont  talk  about  it.  Oh !  don't  be  angry,  dear ;  I  love 
you  so." 

But  he  was  angry.  He  returned  her  caress  in  a  very 
half-hearted  way,  and  his  manner  hurt  her  finer  nature, 
which  happened  for  the  moment  to  be  in  the  ascendant. 
Presently  he  broke  the  silence  again  by  saying : 

"  I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  about  moving 
out  of  the  studio,  and  have  been  seeing  exactly  how  I  stand. 
By  the  time  all  my  bills  have  come  in,  I  shall  be  pretty 
hard  up,  until  some  of  these  editors  pay  me  for  my  work ;  so 
it  will  be  better  for  me  to  move.  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
be  ashamed  of  being  poor.  I'll  see  about  the  necessary 
arrangements  at  once." 

"  Good  !  "  she  replied,  drawing  him  down  by  her  side  on 


1 56  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

the  lounge.  "  I  am  almost  glad  the  governor  has  cut  up 
rough,  do  you  know,  dear  ;  I  shall  have  you  more  to  myself 
now,  and  I  shall  be  more  a  part  of  your  life  in  future." 

It  was  almost  with  a  sense  of  discomfort  that  he  listened 
to  her  words,  and  presently  he  disengaged  himself  to  go 
over  to  his  own  writing-table.  And  in  the  long  silence 
which  followed,  the  thoughts  of  the  two  were  taking  an 
identical  direction  :  both  realized  that  a  new  era  had  dawned 
in  their  lives,  but  they  looked  forward  into  that  future  with 
very  different  feelings — feelings,  however,  that  they  did  not 
express  to  one  another. 

In  an  hour  Eric  had  removed  from  his  article  almost  every 
trace  of  the  Princess'  handiwork,  and  had  posted  his  cor- 
rected proofs  to  the  editor  of  Smith's  Monthly,  feeling  almost 
satisfied  with  himself.  She  had  meant  well,  he  said  to  him- 
self;  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  he  was  very  -fond  of  her. 
Ah  !  the  world  ?  Ah — yi !  Let  us  remark,  apropos  de  bottes, 
that  between  "  une  femme  gu'il  aime  "  and  "  une  femme  qui 
t'aime"  there  is  only  the  difference  of  an  apostrophe — and 
what  is  punctuation  in  a  love  story  ? 

And  so  Eric  settled  down  to  a  new  life.  Of  course  his 
abandonment  of  the  gorgeous  studio  next  door  to  the 
Hawleighs  was  a  theme  for  great  wonderment  in  the  colony, 
but  it  became  generally  understood  that  Eric  had  had  re- 
verses of  some  kind,  and,  being  no  longer  the  merry  plutocrat 
of  hitherto,  had  cut  down  his  expenses  and  had  taken  to  lit- 
erature in  search  of  a  livelihood.  This  did  not  in  any  way 
impair  his  position  in  the  colony  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  liked 
him  the  better  for  it.  There  were  few,  if  any,  of  "  the  boys  " 
who  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be  periodically  "  broke," 
and  that  Eric  should  come  to  the  same  complexion  seemed 
to  draw  him  still  nearer  to  them,  and  went  far  toward  abol- 
ishing a  certain  feeling  that  had  existed  in  holes  and  corners, 
to  the  effect  that  the  wealthy  amateur  had  no  absolute  right 
to  share  the  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  colony,  but  was 
admitted  rather  on  sufferance  than  otherwise. 

Eric  had,  in  these  first  days,  but    little  doubt  of  his  ulti- 


CLOUDS.  157 

mate  success  as  a  man  of  letters,  though  it  struck  him  as 
decidedly  odd  when  he  got  a  polite  communication  from  the 
editor  of  Smith's  Monthly  to  the  effect  that  in  its  altered 
form  his  article  was  not  suited  to  the  requirements  of  the 
magazine,  and  asking  should  it  be  inserted  as  it  stood  in 
the  duplicate  proof  sent  therewith,  or  should  the  article,  in 
its  new  form,  be  cancelled  ?  Now,  Eric  wanted  the  money 
somewhat,  and  the  magazine  paid  well  and  promptly  ;  should 
he  pocket  his  pride  and  accept  what  he  called  the  Princess' 
"garblement"  ?  After  much  consideration  he  decided  so  to 
do,  and,  to  the  sorrow  of  all  persons  concerned,  be  it  related 
that  this  was  apparently,  for  a  long  while  at  least,  Eric's  first 
and  last  literary  success.  From  this  time  forward,  so  surely 
as  he  sent  an  article  or  story  to  any  periodical,  so  surely  was 
it  returned  to  him.  Once  or  twice  he  posted  a  many-times- 
returned  manuscript  to  some  third-  or  fourth-rate  magazine 
of  no  antecedents  and  doubtful  future,  and  got  it  in,  but 
never  got  paid  for  it,  considering  it  something  gained  to 
have  got  rid  of  it  at  all. 

And  thus  did  Eric's  literary  apprenticeship  begin,  with 
all  its  trials  and  disappointments.  Who  is  there  of  us  who 
woo  the  Muse  of  Literary  Fame,  who  has  not  been  through 
it  ?  The  stories  of  young  writers  who,  reduced  in  circum- 
stances, have  made  a  wild  sensation,  and  sprung  to  the  first 
rank  with  a  first  work,  have  ever  been,  to  me,  purely  apocry- 
phal, as  they  must  ever  be  to  anyone  who  has  adopted  litera- 
ture as  a  profession  and  not  as  a  recreation,  and  who  has 
pitched  his  literary  tent,  so  to  speak,  day  after  day  in  that 
"  Elysium  of  the  Literary  Unwashed,"  the  Reading-Room  of 
the  British  Museum.  The  dogmatist  who  laid  down  the  par- 
adoxical axiom  that  "  No  man  can  make  a  living  by  letters 
until  he  is  dead,"  exaggerated  of  course — exaggeration  is 
the  prerogative  of  the  inculcator  of  axioms  ;  but  it  is  equally 
true  that,  except  in  a  few  very  rare  instances,  men  who  have 
written  standard  works  for  all  time,  have  been  men  in  abso- 
lutely independent  circumstances,  whose  works  cost  them  far 
more  to  write  than  they  ever  brought  home  to  their  authors 


158  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

in  the  form  of  publisher's  cheques.  Now  and  then  one  hears 
of  a  great  success  made  by  a  writer  of  fiction  who  has  never 
before  seen  the  light  of  day  as  it  shines  upon  a  book-stall. 
If  we  only  knew  his  esoteric  history,  we  should  find  that  his 
book  is  made  up  of  the  few  good  things  that  have  brightened 
three  or  four  previous  still-born  productions ;  and  our  opin- 
ion in  the  matter  is  usually  confirmed  by  the  subsequent 
publication,  "  on  his  reputation,"  of  the  sweepings  of  the 
waste-paper  basket  to  which  he  had  consigned  his  "  Rejected 
Addresses." 

For  the  man  who  has  the  pluck  to  destroy  his  rejected 
manuscripts  and  start  fresh,  regarding  his  futile  efforts 
merely  in  the  light  of  "  practice,"  I  have  always  reserved  my 
choicest  salaam ;  I  have  known  but  few  such.  And  if  it  is 
an  agony  to  the  wealthy  amateur  to  see  his  works,  like  the 
curses  of  the  proverbialist,  come  home  to  roost,  can  ye  im- 
agine, "ye  gentlemen  of  England  who  live  at  home  in  ease," 
what  are  the  feelings  of  the  young  writer  who  has  put  off 
importunate  landwomen  and  tradesmen  with  a  promise  of 
payment  "on  receipt  of  a  cheque  from  his  publishers,"  when 
he  arrives  home  late  at  night  from  some  Bohemian  entertain- 
ment or  other,  and  sees  on  the  table  in  the  hall,  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  frugally  lowered  gas-jet,  an  oblong  package, 
with  a  letter  tucked  under  the  string  which  secures  it,  and 
he  thinks  to  himself,  as,  without  looking  at  it,  he  carries  it 
up-stairs  in  the  dark,  "  Which  of  them  is  this  ?  "  and  pres- 
ently unwraps  some  pet  essay  or  other,  on  which  he  counted 
with  all  the  fondness  of  a  confiding  mother  ?  Ah,  sirs  !  then 
is  the  moment  of  tears,  not  of  tears  which  flow  from  the 
lachrymal  glands,  but  from  the  tear-well  in  the  heart,  as  one 
asks  one's  self  the  question,  "  Am  I  a  failure  ? — shall  I  ever  be 
able  to  write  for  a  living  ?  "  We  of  Bohemia  know  what  it 
is — we  have  suffered,  nous  autres  !  and  I  am  not  writing  these 
lines  for  the  eyes  of  the  specialists  who  periodically  write  an 
article  to  order,  on  their  hobbies,  or  for  the  public  characters 
whose  signature  covers  a  multitude  of  literary  sins  that  are 
unpardonable  in  the  scholar,  but  for  the  earnest  student  who 


CLOUDS.  1 59 

has  apparently  wasted  the  best  years  of  his  youth  acquiring 
an  education  that  seems  utterly  useless  when  he  tries  to 
earn  five  pounds  with  a  prostituted  pen. 

And  this  was  the  case  of  Eric  Trevanion,  who  now  for  the 
first  time  realized  that  heretofore,  to  him,  apocryphal  con- 
dition, of  being  "  hard  up  "  ;  who  learnt  to  climb  upon  the 
knife-board  of  a  Kensington  omnibus  in  lieu  of  waving  his 
umbrella  at  the  passing  hansom ;  to  spend  hours  in  the 
dingy  book-shops  of  Holywell  Street,  instead  of  sending  a 
peremptory  order  to  Quaritch  or  Bumpas  ;  to  cast  an  inter- 
ested glance  at  the  prices  marked  on  the  goods  in  a  grocer's 
window,  instead  of  sauntering  into  the  antique  silver  shops 
in  Hanway  Passage  to  see  if  there  was  anything  he  could 
buy.  And  Eric  felt  it  all  keenly,  all  the  more  so  when  he 
found  himself  returning  a  compulsatory  negative  to  postu- 
lants who  had  always  found  him  hitherto  "good  for  a  fiver," 
under  the  euphemism  of  a  loan.  And  with  it  all  he  became 
more  and  more  of  a  recluse,  more  irritable  with  the  Princess, 
when  she  would  suggest  subjects  to  him  which  he  considered 
beneath  his  dignity  as  a  scholar  to  discuss  in  print,  and 
more  sensitive  than  ever  when  she  would  make  any  remark 
that  seemed  tinged  with  an  inquiry  on  the  question  of 
finance. 

And  Daphne  felt  it  more  keenly  still.  She  used  to  scheme 
to  lighten  his  worries  in  a  score  of  ways,  whose  principal 
difficulty  lay  in  that  of  their  concealment.  Thus,  one  day 
she  said  to  him  suddenly,  "  By  the  way,  Eric — what  rent  do 
you  pay  opposite  ?  " 

And  when  he  told  her,  she  replied,  "That's  just  like  you  ! 
you're  the  most  casually  extravagant  creature  I  ever  knew. 
Why,  So-and-so,  who  has  the  corresponding  rooms  in  the 
next  house,  only  pays  a  third  of  that  sum.  I  shall  have  a 
talk  to  your  landlady  about  it." 

And  Eric,  who  stood  in  some  awe  of  the  said  enchantress, 
whom  he  constantly  feared  he  would  some  day  be  compelled 
to  ask  to  wait  for  her  rent,  replied  grimly : 


l6o  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  Well,  don't  let  me  rob  that  person  of  the  pleasure  of  a 
conversation  with  you." 

"  And  you  know,"  continued  the  Princess,  "  the  bachelor- 
man  is  the  natural  prey  of  the  London  washerwoman.  I 
shall  send  Clyde  over  to  you  for  your  clothes  every  week,  and 
you  must  pay  me.  I  will  not  have  you  robbed  all  round  as 
you  are  now." 

And  to  Eric's  astonishment,  a  few  days  later,  his  whilome 
terrible  landvvoman  informed  him  that,  as  she  heard  that 
he  contemplated  moving  next  door,  she  would  be  glad  to 
have  him  stay,  and  pay  the  next  door  rent,  which  was,  in 
fact,  one-third  of  what  he  had  hitherto  been  paying.  About 
this  time  also  Daphne  grew  captious  about  dining  with  him 
in  town,  preferring  vastly  to  have  him  come  and  picnic  with 
her  in  the  studio  ;  or  anon  she  would  burst  in  upon  him  in 
his  own  rooms,  carrying  the  complete  outfit  of  dinner  in  a 
basket,  and  exclaiming  : 

"Eric  !  I'm  bored,  and  tired  of  my  old  studio  ;  I've  come 
to  picnic  with  you — here's  my  share  ;  what  have  you  got  ?  " 
and  then  she  would  ransack  his  cupboard  in  search  of  potted 
comestibles  and  other  trifles  which  she  knew  Eric  kept  "  on 
the  farm."  And  she  did  it  all  so  charmingly,  that  Eric 
never  dreamt  that  she  had  any  motive  ulterior  to  her  own 
amusement,  or  that  "  the  rent  next  door  "  was  precisely  the 
same  as  what  he  had  always  paid. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  when  she  had  descended 
upon  him,  the  bearer  of  more  than  ordinarily  good  cheer, 
that  she  said  at  the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  when  they  had 
drawn  their  chairs  to  the  fire,  which  was  now  almost  ren- 
dered unnecessary  by  the  advancing  spring  : 

"  Do  you  know,  boy,  I've  got  a  scheme  for  you.  I  was 
sitting  the  other  day  at  a  dinner-party  next  to  a  provincial 
journalist,  and  he  told  me  all  about  an  undertaking  that 
made  me  think  at  once  of  you.  He  is  the  editor  of  a  big 
concern  in  a  big  midland  city,  and  is  starting  a  magazine  to 
be  written  by  London  journalists.  They  are  going  to  pay 
very  well — two  pounds  a  page — because  all  the  articles  are 


CLOUDS.  l6l 

to  be  strictly  anonymous,  so  anonymous,  in  fact,  that  not 
even  the  contributors  are  to  know  the  name  of  the  magazine, 
or  where  it's  to  be  published.  The  articles  are  to  go  to 
him,  and  he  sends  a  cheque  on  receipt  of  the  corrected 
proofs.  Well,  I  offered  at  once  to  write  for  him,  and  he 
jumped  at  the  offer.  Now,  I  can't  write,  but  you  can,  and  as 
we're  very  poor  we  must  pocket  our  pride.  You  shall  write 
the  articles,  and  I'll  put  in  a  touch  here  and  there.  I 
promise  not  to  alter  what  you  write,  and  when  he  sends  me 
the  cheques  I  shall  claim  twenty-five  per  cent,  for  my  share 
of  the  work,  and  as  negotiation  fee.  You  mustn't  ask  any 
questions  about  it,  because  I  swore  I  wouldn't  betray  him — 
will  you  go  into  it  with  me  ?  " 

"  My  dear  girl,"  answered  Eric,  "  I'll  do  anything  that'll 
make  money.  I've  come  down  to  that.  What  do  you  want 
for  a  start  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dish  up  any  of  your  old  impossible  stuff  a  little,  and 
hand  it  over.  I'll  see  that  it  gets  in  all  right." 

And  so  Eric  set  to  work  again.  The  Princess  was  as 
good  as  her  word,  and  hardly  "garbled"  his  manuscript  at 
all,  and  he  returned  his  first  set  of  proofs,  feeling  that  at 
last  the  tide  had  turned  a  little.  For  a  space  the  cheques 
came  in  with  cheerful  regularity  and  liberality,  and  Eric  and 
the  Princess  used  to  laugh  together  over  what  he  used  to 
call  "  The  Mysterious  Magazine,"  which  they  used  sapiently 
to  agree  could  never  pay  its  proprietors,  so  absolutely  in  ad- 
vance of  the  merits  of  the  "  copy  "  was  the  price  they  paid 
for  it.  And  for  a  couple  of  months  Eric  seemed  to  be  in  a 
position  to  laugh  at  his  former  troubles,  especially  as  not 
only  did  he  make  a  good  thing  by  writing  Daphne's  articles 
for  her,  but  also  the  editor  of  a  leading  weekly  had  betrayed 
a  disposition  to  accept,  publish,  and  pay  for  a  few  articles  of 
which  Eric  declared  himself  heartily  ashamed,  but  which 
necessity  made  him  sink  his  personal  feelings  and  write. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  he  sat  one  day  in  the  Princess' 
studio  finishing  an  article  for  her,  and  scribbling  some  letters, 
when  he  found  that  he  had  not  an  envelope  left  in  his 


l62  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

pigeon-holes.  He  rose  and  went  over  to  Daphne's  table  to 
find  one,  and -not  seeing  any  in  the  place  where  she  usually 
kept  them,  tried  to  find,  without  troubling  her,  the  reserve 
stock.  In  pursuance  of  his  quest,  he  opened  a  drawer  in 
whose  lock  the  key  stood  invitingly,  and  the  first  thing  that 
met  his  eye  was  the  whole  set  of  his  articles  for  "  The  Mys- 
terious Magazine,"  the  corrected  proof  of  each  neatly  folded 
up  with  the  manuscript.  A  horrible,  sickening  sensation 
took  possession  of  him  as  he  took  them  out  and  verified 
them,  and,  white  to  the  lips  as  the  ghastly  truth  flashed 
across  him,  he  rose  and,  presenting  them  to  Daphne  as  she 
sat  at  her  easel,  which  had  hidden  him  from  her  as  he  stood 
at  her  table,  said,  in  a  deadly,  quiet  voice  : 

"  Daphne,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? " 

Her  face  was  scarcely  less  white,  her  eyes  scarcely  less 
troubled  and  dry  than  his,  as  she  made  answer  to  him  : 

"  Oh,  Eric !  where  did  you  get  those  from  ?  " 

"  I  was  looking  for  an  envelope  ;  there  was  none  in  your 
case ;  I  opened  the  top  drawer,  and  the  first  thing  that 
caught  my  eye  was  this  packet.  Well — answer  me — what 
have  you  to  say  ? " 

She  kept  silence,  looking  dumbly  at  the  bundle,  and  he 
continued : 

"  Does  the  magazine  of  which  you  have  spoken  exist  ? 
Did  you  ever  meet  such  a  man  as  you  described  the  editor 
to  be  ?  In  God's  name,  Daphne,  answer  me,  or  I  shall  go 
mad!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  forth 
her  answer: 

"  Oh,  Eric,  my  love,  forgive  me — forgive  me  !  I  can  say 
nothing,  only  that  I  loved  you,  and  it  made  my  heart  ache  to 
see  you  so  poor — to  see  you  suffer  so.  I  knew  that  some 
day,  when  you  had  made  a  name,  they  would  be  valuable, 
and  anyone  would  be  only  too  glad  to  take  them  from  me 
for  you.  I  was  only  buying  them  in  advance — it  was  an 
investment,  Eric." 

For   answer   he  flung  the    packet  at  her  feet,  and  strode 


CLOUDS.  163 

from  her  presence.  When  he  returned  twenty  minutes  later, 
his  eyes  flaming  with  passion,  she  was  sitting  in  the  same 
position,  her  brushes  lying  with  the  manuscripts  at  her  feet. 

"So,"  he  began,  "you  have  lied  to  me  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  you  have  cheated  me  into  living  on  your  charity. 
I  did  not  ask  your  alms — I  refused  them,  as  I  refuse  them 
now.  My  God !  how  can  I  have  been  so  blind  ?  You 
thought  that  that  wretched  woman  over  the  way  would  keep 
your  secret — well,  so  she  might  have  done  had  I  not  by 
good  luck  chanced  upon  these  papers.  I  trust  you  are  satis- 
fied with  the  success  of  your  scheme.  Egad  !  it  was  well 
contrived — very  well  contrived.  How  dared  you  insult  me 
so  ? — do  you  hear  me  ? — how  dared  you  ? " 

She  had  sunk  upon  her  knees  before  him — she,  the  proud 
Princess  Daphne  of  a  few  short  months  ago — her  face  hid- 
den in  her  hands. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  Eric — I  can't  bear  it — you 
are  killing  me.  It  was  for  the  best — it  was  for  the  best — 1 
loved — I  love  you  so !  Ah !  won't  you  forgive  me,  dear  ?  " 

"  Never ! " 

She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet  and  staggered  to  the  hearth. 
There  her  forces  left  her,  and  she  flung  herself  on  the 
lounge  in  an  agony  of  tears.  And  Eric  Trevanion,  his  face 
deathly  pale,  his  brows  contracted  as  if  with  physical  pain, 
stood  looking  at  her. 

And  as  he  stood,  no  sound  breaking  the  silence  but  her 
sobs,  amid  the  hideous  humiliation  of  it  all  there  came 
over  him  the  realization  of  how  great  a  love  was  this  of  hers 
for  him.  Few  men  can  withstand  tears,  if  they  are  genuine, 
and  well  from  a  breaking  heart ;  so  at  last  he  drew  nearer 
to  her,  and  kneeling  by  her  side,  put  his  arms  about  her 
prostrate  body.  As  she  felt  them,  she  turned  and  flung  hers 
round  his  neck,  burying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Come,  Daph,"  he  said,  at  last;  "don't  be  so  unhappy 
about  it.  I  know  it  was  only  your  true,  loving  heart  that 
made  you  do  as  you  did.  It  is  I  who  should  beg  for  forgive- 
ness, and  I  beg  for  it  here  on  my  knees.  I  spoke  harshly, 


164  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

cruelly,  just  now — I  had  no  right  to  do  so.  You  can  under- 
stand my  feelings  a  little,  can't  you  ?  I  know  yours,  and  I 
forgive  you  the  moment's  worry  you  caused  me — forgive  you 
from  my  soul." 

And  so,  little  by  little,  her  sobs  became  more  intermittent, 
and  at  last  ceased  entirely,  as,  lying  in  his  arms,  she  raised 
her  beautiful  eyes  to  his  and  he  kissed  away  from  them  the 
last  tears  that  trembled  on  her  lashes. 

When  they  were  both  comparatively  themselves  again, 
they  fell  to  talking  naturally  ;  and  when  at  last  he  saw  that 
she  had  quite  recovered  from  her  paroxysm,  he  rang  the  bell, 
and  Clytie  brought  in  tea  and  lit  the  gas.  Her  sharp 
eyes  saw  that  the  Princess  had  been  weeping,  and  she  lev- 
elled at  Eric  a  look  of  undisguised  hatred,  which,  however, 
he  scarcely  noticed,  though,  unreasonably,  he  felt  this  after- 
noon more  than  usually  inclined  to  reciprocate  her  aver- 
sion. 

When  she  was  gone,  and  they  had  settled  themselves  com- 
fortably, he  said : 

"  Now,  Daph,  let's  talk  business.  " 

"  Yes,  Eric,  "  she  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "  that's  what  I  want 
you  to  do.  I  knew  that  you'd  never  consent  to  accept  this 
money  from  me — and  see — I  have  kept  an  exact  account  of 
everything  I  have  spent  for  you.  It  has  been  nothing  to  me, 
for  you  know  I  am  quite  well  off.  Very  soon  you  too  will 
be  rich  and  prosperous,  and  then,  never  fear  " — this  with  a 
little  laugh — "  I'll  exact  it  from  you  to  the  uttermost  far- 
thing— I  promise  you  I  will." 

And  so  they  calmly  discussed  the  question  and  their 
mutual  arrangements  for  the  future.  The  past  was  irremedi- 
able, the  money  was  spent  that  she  had  given  him,  and  with 
her  sweet  casuistry  he  came  almost  to  look  upon  her  future 
loans  as  not  so  shameful  after  all,  for  he  felt  within  himself 
that  his  present  poverty  must  soon  come  to  an  end. 

They  were  thus  employed  when,  suddenly,  a  distant  report 
shook  the  studio,  and  some  fragments,  apparently  of  glass, 
fell  upon  the  skylight  in  the  roof. 


CLOUDS.  165 

"  Great  heavens  !  what's  that  ? "  exclaimed  Eric. 

"  Goodness  knows,  "  returned  the  Princess,  anxiously ; 
"  what  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"There  has  been  an  explosion  somewhere — let's  hope 
it's  only  the  boiler  of  some  conservatory  or  other,  I  tell 
you  what — I'll  run  out  and  see  if  it  was  in  Holland  Street." 
And  he  disappeared. 

In  ten  minutes  he  returned,  looking  very  grave. 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it,  Eric  ?  "  cried  the  Princess. 

"  It  was  an  explosion  of  gas,  dear — and  I'm  sorry  to  say 
it  was  in  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  studio.  It  had  got  turned 
on  somehow,  and  when  he  went  to  light  it,  it  exploded,  blow- 
ing the  whole  of  the  skylight  out." 

"  And  Gabriel  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is  terribly  hurt.  Fortunately  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  studio  at  the  time." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TRANSMIGRATION. 

YES  !  Paul  du  Peyral  lay  dying. 

So  said  the  doctor  for  whom,  in  an  agony  of  terror  and 
grief,  the  distraught  Mahmoure  had  sent  Paul's  body-ser- 
vant. He  might  live,  said  the  doctor,  for  hours,  or  for  days, 
but  most  probably  it  would  be  a  question  of  the  former  :  it 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end  ;  and  after  having  made  the 
most  thorough  examination  possible,  the  medico  was  forced 
to  admit  that  he  was  absolutely  and  completely  baffled  by 
the  nature  of  the  disease  which  showed  such  alarming  symp- 
toms. 

Mahmoure,  being  questioned,  gave  the  fullest  possible  par- 
ticulars of  Paul's  habits  of  life — which  were  regularity  itself. 
She  told  all  she  knew  of  his  studies,  of  his  scientific  and 
psychological  pursuits ;  and  concerning  these  latter  the  doc- 
tor made  especially  minute  and  interested  inquiries.  At 
last  his  examination — during  which  Paul  had  lain  in  a  state 
of  semi-consciousness — ended,  and  the  doctor  rose  and  took 
his  leave,  saying  to  Mahmoure'  as  he  went : 

"  The  case  to  which  you  have  summoned  me,  madam,  is 
one  which  appears  to  be  unique  in  my  professional  experi- 
ence, and  which  cannot  be  dealt  with  by  any  form  of  patholog- 
ical treatment  that  is  familiar  to  me.  I  am  not,  however,  of 
that  class  of  physicians  who  will  gladly  see  a  patient  die 
rather  than  yield  a  point  of  etiquette,  and  meet  in  consultation 
a  doctor  of  the  Eclectic  school.  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  sug- 
gest I  would  ask  you  to  send  for  Doctor  Schuyler  Van 
Boomkamp,  a  young  practitioner  whose  specialitf  is  psycholog- 
ical complaints,  and  who  has  made  a  profound  study  of  them 
in  Paris,  Berlin,  and  Leyden,  from  which  latter  school  he  is 

1 66 


TRANSMIGRA  TION.  1 67 

a  graduate.  If  you  will  beg  his  attendance  here  at  three 
o'clock,  by  that  time  Mr.  du  Peyral  will  most  probably  have 
regained  consciousness,  and  I  will  be  here  soon  after  that 
hour  to  consult  with  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp." 

During  the  day,  as  the  doctor  had  predicted,  Paul  recov- 
ered consciousness,  though  his  weakness  was  so  great  as 
to  be  almost  paralysis,  and  noiselessly  Mahmoure'  came  and 
went  in  his  room,  ministering  to  his  wants,  and  rewarded 
now  and  then  with  a  few  half-articulated  words  of  thanks. 
The  thought  of  what  she  had  originally  come  about  never 
once  entered  her  head,  nor  did  it  until  she  was  reminded 
thereof  in  her  conversation,  that  same  afternoon,  with  Dr. 
Van  Boomkamp.  As  he  is  a  not  altogether  unimportant  ac- 
tor in  the  development  and  conclusion  of  this  drama,  a  word 
about  him  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  was  a  man  of  thirty-two,  tall,  but 
with  a  pensive  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a  grave  incli- 
nation of  the  head  forward  and  sideways,  that  was  habitual, 
a  smooth-shaven  face,  and  hair  of  an  uncertain  colour  that 
had  become  slightly  touched  with  white,  eyes  rather  deeply 
set  and  of  an  intense  steel-gray,  a  clearly  cut  nose  and  thin 
lips,  his  whole  personality  completed  by  a  pair  of  icy-cold, 
long,  white  hands,  with  beautifully  formed  nails,  and  a  pair 
of  equally  icy-cold  pince-nez,  from  behind  whose  gold  rims 
the  steely  eyes  literally  froze  the  prevarication  ere  it  gushed 
from  the  fountain  of  the  brain.  He  always  dressed  exqui- 
sitely, but  invariably  in  the  fashion  of  a  few  years  ago ;  and 
to-day,  when  Mahmoure  was  summoned  from  Paul's  bed- 
room to  speak  with  him  in  the  study  before  he  saw  the  pa- 
tient, she  realized,  the  moment  she  saw  him,  as  he  courteously 
handed  her  a  chair,  and  in  smiling  showed  her  a  set  of  teeth 
as  fine  and  white  as  a  woman's,  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  man  who,  like  Paul,  was  the  unique  specimen  of  his 
kind. 

After  giving  him  the  same  general  particulars  as  she  had 
given  to  Paul's  own  doctor,  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  asked 
her  question  after  question  concerning  the  mesmeric  phe- 


l68  THE  PK  INC  ESS  DAPHNE. 

nomena  in  which  she  had  been  the  percipient,  investigating 
them  with  a  minuteness  that  almost  appalled  Mahmoure, 
and  examining  into  causes,  agencies,  and  effects  in  a  manner 
that  might  almost  have  made  her  fancy  he  had  been  present 
at  their  seances.  As  he  concluded  his  examination — of 
which  he  had  taken  copious  notes — a  ring  at  the  bell  and 
a  step  in  the  parlour  announced  the  arrival  of  the  senior 
medico.  Mahmoure  was  about  to  summon  him,  when  Dr. 
Van  Boomkamp,  arresting  her  with  a  gesture,  said  quietly : 

"  There  is  one  final  question  that  I  must  ask  you,  Madame 
di  Zulueta — on  what  day  were  you  married  to  Mr.  du 
Peyral  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp !  "  She  had  turned  and  faced  him, 
her  eyes  stricken  wide  with  apprehension. 

"  Do  not  be  distressed,  madame,  I  beg  of  you ;  and  I 
assure  you,  though  the  assurance  is  hardly  necessary, 
that  the  information  will  rest  as  profoundly  confidential  as 
the  rest  of  our  conversation.  Of  course  I  know  that  you 
are  legally  married  to  our  patient ;  you  have  told  me  so  un- 
consciously fifty  times  this  afternoon  ;  but  it  is  important 
that  I  should  know  the  exact  date." 

"  On  the  25th  of  September,  last  year,  in  the  village  of 
Niagara,  Ontario,  Canada." 

She  made  the  answer  almost  mechanically,  under  the  spell 
of  those  terrible  eyes.  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  made  a 
last  note  on  his  carnet,  and  joining  his  confrere,  the  three 
entered  Paul's  bed-room  together. 

Paul  lay  propped  up  by  pillows,  very  weak,  hardly  able  to 
articulate  a  word,  but  yet  conscious,  and  the  moment  Dr. 
Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  entered  the  room  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  that  gentleman,  never  letting  his  gaze  wander  for 
a  moment.  After  verifying  the  diagnosis  of  his  older  col- 
league, Van  Boomkamp  said  to  the  dying  man,  in  a  low  but 
deadly  distinct  voice : 

"  I  am  about  to  ask  you  some  questions ;  can  you  concen- 
trate your  mind  upon  the  answers  ?  " 

An  inarticulate  whisper   broke  from  the  patient,  in  which 


TRANSMIGRATION.  169 

the  words  "  understand  " — "  too  weak  "  were  alone  recog- 
nizable. 

"  Madame  di  Zulueta,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  must  ask  you 
to  restore  temporarily  a  portion  of  the  vitality  you  have  un- 
consciously drawn  from  our  friend  here.  Kindly  take  your 
seat  close  to  the  head  of  the  bed  here.  So — thank  you. 
Now  place  the  tips  of  your  fingers  under  the  patient's  head, 
so  that  they  lie  along  the  spinal  column  at  the  point  where  it 
leaves  the  brain.  So — good  !  Kindly  make  an  effort  of  will 
to  transfer  some  of  your  very  abundant  vitality  to  him.  Mr. 
du  Peyral,  you  are  feeling  stronger — can  you  answer  my 
questions  now  ? " 

A  flicker  of  light  returned  to  his  dull  eyes,  an  infinitesimal 
tinge  to  his  hollow  cheeks,  as  he  replied  in  a  weak  but  per- 
fectly distinct  voice  : 

"  Certainly,  doctor." 

The  older  and  more  orthodox  physician  sat  petrified  with 
amazement,  but  watching  the  proceedings  of  his  young 
colleague  with  fascinated  interest.  Then  the  examination 
began. 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  feel  in  any  way  light-headed  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Are  you  in  full  possession  of  all  your  mental  functions  ?  " 

"  Yes — in  a  way." 

"  You  mean   that  your   brain  works  with  its  usual  clear- 
ness, but  without  its  wonted  rapidity  ?  " 
' "  Exactly." 

"  Have  you  ever  had  an  attack  of  this  kind  before  ?  " 

"Once  only." 

"  And  that,  I  presume,  was  immediately  after  some  more 
than  ordinarily  violent  effort  to  compass  some  psychological 
end  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  What  was  its  nature  ?  " 


I/O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  I  had  summoned  to  my  mind  a  picture  of  the  subject 
upon  whom  I  have  been  making  my  experiments  in  Europe." 

"  Ah  !  and  you  saw  her  ?  " 

"  That  was  my  impression." 

"  To  return  to  your  present  condition  :  there  is  apparently 
no  alteration  in  your  physical  condition  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  No  loss  of  weight  ? " 

"  Not  an  ounce." 

"  No  emaciation — no  loss  of  muscle  ?  " 

"None  whatever." 

"  Raise  your  leg  in  bed." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Raise  your  arm  above  your  head." 
.    "  I  cannot." 

"  Ah !  Kindly  remove  your  ringers  from  his  neck, 
Madame."  Mahmoure  did  so. 

"  Now  tell  me,  what  are  your  sensations  ?  " 

A  contraction  pa'ssed  over  his  features,  but  though  his 
lips  moved,  no  sound  came  from  them. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  replace  your  hands,  madame.  So — 
thank  you.  Now  take  a  deep  breath,  put  your  lips  to  his, 
and  breathe  softly,  so  as  to  fill  his  lungs  if  possible  with 
your  own  atmosphere." 

Mahmoure  did  so,  and  a  strong  shudder  shook  the  dying 
man. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  do  not  let  her  do  that  again — she 
cannot  bear  it.  I  know  that  it  must  be  my  life  or  hers ;  let 
it  be  mine — my  work  is  ended.  But  I  know  yours,  doctor, 
and  I  beg  you,  if  you  will,  to  take  up  mine  where  I  have  left 
it."  As  he  said  these  words  his  voice  had  almost  regained 
its  natural  strength,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  his  sentence  the 
muscles  of  his  face  relaxed  once  more,  and  he  sank  still 
deeper  among  the  pillows  that  supported  him. 

"That  will  do,  madame"  said  Van  Boomkamp,  rising. 
"  We  cannot  arrest  the  end ;  it  must  come  in  a  short  time 
now,  probably  in  a  few  hours.  You  wish  to  remain  with 


TRANSMIGRA  TION.  1 7 1 

him,  I  presume  ?  Pray  do  so,  but  do  not  touch  him  more 
than  you  can  help ;  the  excitement  will  be  too  great  for  him. 
Now,  doctor,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  older  man,  "  I 
shall  be  glad  of  a  few  minutes  conversation  with  you."  And 
he  led  the  way  into  the  study,  closing  the  doors  behind  them 
carefully. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  on  this  case,  sir  ?  "  he  began,  when 
they  had  seated  themselves. 

"  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp,"  returned  the  other,  "  when  I  di- 
agnosed the  condition  of  our  patient  this  morning,  I  am 
proud  to  say  that  I  found  that  my  experience  and  medical 
skill  were  wide  enough  to  tell  me  that  I  was  completely 
baffled.  As  you  see  yourself,  there  is  no  tendency  to  a  dis- 
eased condition  of  the  heart,  liver,  lungs,  spine,  or  brain  ;  it 
is  not  nervous  fever  ;  it  is  not  hypochondria  or  lymphoma- 
nia.  If  disease  is  here,  it  is  a  disease  of  the  life,  of  the 
soul ;  and  at  the  amphitheatres  of  anatomy,  a  life,  a  soul, 
has  yet  to  be  dissected — we  know  nothing  of  it.  Though, 
therefore,  the  name  of  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  is  one  that 
causes  the  orthodox  faculty  to  look  somewhat  askant  (as  you 
know),  your  fame  as  a  psychologist  has  reached  me  from 
sources  that  I  respect  in  Paris  and  Berlin,  and  especially 
from  the  more  esoteric  schools  of  Leyden  University.  I 
therefore  counselled  Madame  di  Zulueta,  who  takes  an  inter- 
est in  this  young  man  that  we  can  perhaps  understand,-  to 
consult  you,  and  having  assisted  at  your  examination  I  can 
only  say  that  I  am  proud  to  meet  you  in  consultation  on  a 
case  which,  I  frankly  confess,  is  beyond  the  range  of  my 
orthodox  and  perhaps  old-fashioned  experience  and  studies." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  exordium  Schuyler  Van  Boom- 
kamp bowed  respectfully,  though  without  rising,  to  his  sen- 
ior colleague,  and  then,  removing  his  glasses,  he  wiped  them 
thoughtfully  and  readjusted  them.  Then  he  made  answer 
in  the  slow,  measured  terms  of  one  who  is  stating  a  collec- 
tion of  carefully  ascertained  and  determined  facts. 

"  Sir,  I  have  not  been  in  the  habit,  as  you  know,  of  encoun- 
tering this  frankness  in  my  consultations  with  the  faculty, 


1 72  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

or  rather  that  branch  thereof  which  you  represent.  I  will 
answer  you  with  equal  frankness,  and  I  hope  lucidity, 
strange  as  must  appear  to  you  my  unalterable  convictions 
on  the  nature  of  this  case. 

"  We  have  here  a  man  of  very  rare  and  very  highly  de- 
veloped psychological  powers,  whose  name  is  about  to  be 
appended  to  the  already  almost  interminable  roll-call  of  the 
martyrs  to  science. 

"  He  is  bound  by  ties,  earthly  as  well  as  spiritual,  to  the 
very  highly  magnetic  woman  who  is  with  him  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  through  her  he  has  become  connected  in  a  man- 
ner, mysterious  to  the  ordinary  mind,  with  another  woman, 
who,  though  a  thousand  leagues  distant  from  him,  is  proba- 
bly also  connected  with  him  by  some  half-forgotten  tie  of 
blood,  and  is  certainly  connected  with  him  by  the  bond  of 
a  coincidence  of  personality  which  strikes  even  myself  as 
being  almost  miraculous.  Madame  di  Zulueta  is  an  extra- 
ordinarily receptive  woman,  and  when  first  their  liaison — 
let  us  call  it  that  for  the  sake  of  definition — commenced, 
she  was  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  vitality,  physically  and  psycho- 
logically. The  absolute  regularity  of  his  life  has  left  his 
physical  constitution  unimpaired,  but  by  dint  of  continually 
hypnotizing  his  companion,  he  has  gradually  transferred  his 
vitality  to  her,  and  it  is  practically  with  his  soul,  with  his 
vital  force,  that  she  is  living  now,  has  regained  her  health, 
her  strength,  almost  her  youth.  But  of  this  vitality  which 
he  has  poured  into  her,  only  the  grosser  atoms  have  re- 
mained as  fuel  for  the  machine  of  her  life  ;  the  more  ethe- 
real, the  more  subtile  portion  he  has  transferred,  through  her, 
to  this  woman  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  by  name,  it 
appears,  Daphne  Pre'ault. 

"  Your  diagnosis  of  his  condition  is  of  course  " — and  he 
bowed  again — "  pathologically,  scientifically  correct,  but  the 
vital  condition  in  which  he  finds  himself  at  this  moment  is 
this.  Pray  follow  me  very  carefully.  His  magnificent  and 
unimpaired  physique  requires  a  commensurate  strength  of 
vitality,  of  soul,  to  support  it  in  the  condition  known  to  us  as 


TRA  NSMIGRA  TIOiV.  1 7  3 

'  Life.'  That  soul  he  has  gradually  transferred,  until  what 
is  left  of  it  is  insufficient  to  maintain  the  '  life '  in  so  pow- 
erful a  physical  machine.  If  his  body  had  weakened  with 
his  soul,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  continued  to  live,  though 
upon  a  lower  plane  of  vitality  ;  but  it  has  not  done  so,  and 
now  the  remaining  vestiges  of  soul  are  about  to  leave  him, 
and  produce,  in  a  perfectly  healthy  body,  the  phenomenon 
known  to  us  as  '  Death.'  The  problem  which  is  about  to  be 
solved  before  our  eyes  is  this  :  into  which  of  these  living 
personalities  will  the  final  transference  take  place  ?  It 
may  be  into  that  of  Madame  di  Zulueta,  but  I  hope  not,  for 
she  is  not  physically  strong  enough  to  bear  the  burden,  and 
it  would  probably  result  in  some  form  of  mental  aberration 
with  her.  I  am  inclined  to  expect  that  it  will  be  the  body  of 
Miss  Daphne  Preault  that  the  residue  of  his  soul  will  seek. 
You  doubtless  think  that  I  am  expecting  a  kind  of  metempsy- 
chosis, a  kind  of  reincarnation  such  as  formed  the  basis  of 
the  Pythagorean  philosophy — well,  in  a  measure,  I  am.  I 
have  once  seen  such  a  phenomenon  take  place  in  a  little  vil- 
lage in  Poland ;  we  are  about  to  witness  its  repetition,  and, 
in  the  interests  of  psychology,  we  may  congratulate  ourselves 
on  our  almost  unique  experience." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  for  a  few  moments  the  elder 
man  kept  silence.  At  the  expiration  of  those  moments  he 
rose  and  said  : 

"  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp,  the  theory  you  have  expounded  to 
me  is  so  unexpected,  so  marvellous,  that  I  am  absolutely  un- 
able to  give  an  opinion  in  exchange  for  yours.  Excepting 
as  an  observer — and' as  a  deeply  interested  one,  believe  me 
— I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  this  case ;  I  see  that  I 
cannot  arrest  the  finger  of  death,  and  I  leave  our  patient 
in  your  hands,  for — though  against  my  will  and  judgment — 
I  am  bound  to  confess  that  you  have  laid  before  me  an 
aspect  of  the  case  which,  extraordinary  though  it  be,  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  controvert.  When  do  you  expect  that 
death  will  supervene  ?  " 

"  In  about  four  hours." 


174 


THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 


"  You  will  be  here  ?  " 

"  Certainly — and  you  ?  " 

"  With  your  permission — yes." 

"  Good  !  we  will  meet  here  then  at  about  half-past  seven." 

And,  leaving  a  message  to  that  effect  for  Mahmoure,  the 
two  physicians  left  the  house. 

When  they  returned,  at  the  time  agreed  upon  between 
them,  she  was  sitting  where  they  had  left  her,  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  where  Paul  du  Peyral  lay,  also  as  they  had  left  him, 
half-conscious,  and  apparently  paralyzed.  His  pulse  was 
thin,  hard,  tense,  and  rapid,  and  as  Schuyler  Van  Boom- 
kamp  replaced  his  hand  upon  the  bed,  he  looked  significantly 
at  his  companion  and  said  : 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  minutes." 

Mahmoure'  buried  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  for  the  first 
time  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

The  two  men  took  their  seats  by  the  bed  in  silence,  the 
younger  making  rapid  notes  in  his  memorandum-book. 

The  profound  silence  of  the  room  was  only  broken  at  in- 
tervals by  a  convulsive  sob  from  the  woman,  and  Van  Boom- 
kamp  shaded  the  lamp  more  carefully  to  make  the  twilight 
complete.  Suddenly  the  dying  man  moved,  and  all  three 
riveted  their  attention  even  more  closely  upon  him. 

His  lips  moved,  and  a  sound  escaped  them,  the  purport 
of  which  the  listeners  could  not  catch.  Then,  suddenly,  half 
rising  into  a  sitting  posture,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  a  flush 
of  colour  mounted  to  his  cheeks  and  as  instantaneously  died 
away  again,  as  he  stretched  his  arms  before  him,  and  crying, 
in  a  grand,  ringing  voice,  "  Daphne  ! — Daphne  !  " — he  fell 
back  upon  the  bed.  They  turned  in  the  direction  his  eyes 
had  taken,  and  Mahmoure  cried  out  in  terror  : 

"  There  !  there  !  do  you  not  see  her  ?  " 

"Who?     Where?" 

"  Daphne — Daphne  Preault,"  she  murmured,  and  then 
added,  as  she  covered  her  face  once  more,  "  Ah !  she  is 
gone." 

Van  Boomkamp  took  Paul's  wrist  for  a  moment,  put  his 


TRANSMIGRA  TIOX.  1 7  5 

ear  to  his  mouth,  and  then  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 
He  glanced  at  the  older  physician,  and  then,  laying  his 
hand  on  Mahmoure's  shoulder,  he  said  softly : 

"  It  is  over — he  is  gone." 

"  Dead !— Oh,  God  !  "  she  cried,  "  and  his  last  thoughts 
were  of  her.  Oh !  Paul,  Paul  !  "  and  she  buried  her  head 

upon  the  dead  man's  breast. 

******* 

During  the  four  days  that  elapsed  between  the  death  of 
Paul  du  Peyral  and  his  funeral,  Mahmoure  never  left  her 
husband's  body,  refusing  to  see  anyone,  to  be  comforted, 
almost  to  sustain  life,  and  would  not  arouse  herself  from  her 
apathy  to  gratify  the  curiosity  which  the  circumstances  of 
Paul's  death  had  excited. 

New  York  rang  with  it  for  at  least  three  days.  The  sud- 
den death  of  the  man  who  had  been  such  a  problem  in 
society,  the  sudden  appearance  on  the  scene  of  a  wife,  the 
stories  of  the  colossal  fortune  Paul  had  tortiously  enjoyed  by 
concealing  the  marriage  which  had  taken  place,  said  the  gos- 
sips, immediately  on  the  death  of  hlsjfrst  wife  ten  years  ago, 
all  were  weirdly  interesting,  and  formed  the  staple  subject 
of  conversations  at  dinner-parties,  germans,  the  opera,  in 
church,  and  in  other  places  where  the  School  for  Scandal  of 
New  York  meet  to  paint  their  neighbours  the  deepest  pos- 
sible black,  in  the  hope  that  its  own  members  will  look  a 
shade  grayer  by  comparison.  Miss  Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em 
looked  upon  it  as  a  visitation  of  Providence,  a  direct  inter- 
position of  Divine  power  in  her  favour,  and  almost  took  to 
herself  the  credit  of  having  killed  the  man  who  had  dared  to 
form  a  true  opinion  of  her  tinsel  troubadour.  And  when 
Mahmoure'  du  Peyral,  as  she  was  now  called,  refused  to 
place  herself  on  exhibition,  and  give  particulars  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Paul  for  a  small  fee,  popular  indignation  reached  its 
zenith ;  and,  from  the  altitude  of  Fifth  Avenue,  descended 
with  full  force  on  her  unconscious  but  beautiful  head. 

She  denied  herself  peremptorily  to  all  save  Schuyler  Van 
Boomkamp  and  Paul's  man  of  business,  and  in  the  set- 


1 76  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

demerit  of  his  estate  the  latter  gentleman  had  his  hands  full. 
It  was  a  complicated  affair.  Paul  had  saved  money,  and 
had  bequeathed  everything  to  his  wife  ;  but  the  difficulty  lay 
in  separating  from  the  property  that  was  undeniably  his, 
that  portion  of  the  proceeds  of  the  Pre"ault  estate  that  had 
fallen  to  his  lot  since  his  marriage  with  M.ahmoure.  Repre- 
senting, by  way  of  amateur  "  amicus  curice  "  or  "  guardian 
ad  litem "  in  the  interests  of  social  justice,  Mr.  Charles 
Sturton-Baker,  and  so,  indirectly  through  Eric,  the  Princess 
Daphne,  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  with  the  assistance  of  Messrs. 
Seligman,  Searcher,  &  Certiorari,  was  making  himself  very 
officiously  offensive  ;  and  as  his  reception  by  Mahmoure  du 
Peyral  was  a  matter  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment,  he 
was  thrown  back  on  the  congenial  companionship  of  Parthe- 
nia  Van  Baulk'em,  who  was  making  her  arrangements  to 
spend  the  season  in  Europe,  where  she  fondly  imagined  she 
would  find  "her  young  man"  in  society,  and  whither  Mr. 
Murray  Hill  felt  anxious  that  she  should  go  in  the  capacity 
of  his  fiancee,  though  he  still  kept  up  the  fiction  that  it  was 
entirely  "for  her  and  Mr.  Baker"  that  he  had  started  roll- 
ing the  nucleus  of  the  snow-ball  of  worry  that  was  weighing 
upon  the  mind  of  the  erstwhile  desired  Mahmoure'. 

The  last  instructions  that  the  solicitors  of  the  Preault 
estate  had  received,  had  been  to  extract  to  the  last  cent 
from  the  estate  of  Paul  du  Peyral  the  proportion  of  income 
that  had  been  received  by  him  since  his  marriage  with 
Madame  du  Peyral ;  and  Mr.  Murray  Hill,  smarting  under 
the  memory  of  Mahmoure's  contemptuous  rejection  of  him 
and  of  Paul's  argumentum  ad  caudam,  not  to  mention  the 
encouragement  that  twinkled  from  Miss  Parthenia's  reddish 
eyes,  had  started  a  wild  rumour  that  Paul  had  been  secretly 
married  before  this  marriage  with  Madame  du  Peyral — in- 
deed, there  were  people  who  thought  that  he  went  through 
the  marriage  ceremony  clandestinely  with  someone  about 
once  a  week — and  filing  affidavits,  managed  to  tie  up  the 
whole  estate  for  months  prospectively,  and  to  put  Mahmoure 


TRANSMIGRATION.  1 77 

into  what  was  practically,  for  her,  a  position  of  considerable 
embarrassment. 

Through  all  her  troubles  she  had  one  staunch  and  true 
friend,  a  friend  who  had  come  accidentally  to  her  side,  and 
who  had  made  a  complete  study  of  her  case,  legally,  per- 
sonally, mentally,,  and  physically.  That  friend  was  Dr. 
Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp. 

After  the  funeral  of  Paul  du  Peyral  he  had  come  to  her 
and  said : 

"  Madame  du  Peyral,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  enquir- 
ing somewhat  into  the  circumstances  of  the  case  which  has 
been  preying  on  your  mind  since  the  sharper  anguish  of 
your  husband's  death  has  been  softened.  You  will  naturally 
want  a  friend  to  represent  you  in  many  matters  that  a 
woman  cannot  well  manage  alone.  I  offer  myself  as  that 
friend,  at  the  same  time  as  I  offer  myself  as  a  physician." 

"  As  a  friend,  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp,"  she  had  replied,  "  I 
accept  your  offer  gladly,  and  as  frankly  as  it  is  made,  and  I 
know  what  I  have  to  thank  you  for  when  I  see  the  columris 
and  paragraphs  about  me  in  the  papers ;  but  regarding  you 
as  a  physician,  I  hope  I  can  decline  your  offer,  for,  now  that 
I  am  rallying  a  little,  I  find  myself  returning  to  the  health  I 
enjoyed  before  my  husband's  death." 

"Exactly,"  replied  Van  Boomkamp;  "but  you  must  be 
careful.  Your  health  is  a  very  curious  problem,  even  to 
me ;  you  live  practically  by  means  of  a  transmitted  vitality, 
a  vitality  that  excessive  excitement  would  seriously  impair, 
and  that  must  therefore  be  very  carefully  nurtured.  You  do 
not  allow  the  newspapers  to  worry  you,  I  trust ;  I  fear  the 
case  of  the  '  Preault-du  Peyral '  estate  is  going  to  become  a 
cause  celebre" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  mind  them,  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp.  You  see, 
I  have  no  friends  in  New  York  to  speak  of.  The  imagina- 
tive efforts  of  American  journalists  seldom,  I  think,  worry 
their  objects.  They  can  never  be  more  than  weapons  in  the 
hands  of  one's  enemies  wherewith  to  annoy  one's  friends. 
I  have  enemies,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  it  seems ;  but 

12 


1/8  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

I  have  no  friends  to  whom  they  can  send  clippings  from  the 
morning  papers  day  after  day,  as  is,  I  believe,  the  custom 
over  here." 

"  Well — that's  good  !  I  shall  look  in  periodically  to  see 
how  you  are  getting  along,  and  whenever  I  hear  anything 
that  in  my  judgment  you  should  know,  you  shall  know  it. 
At  present  it  seems  as  if  all  that  has  to  be  done  is  a  sub- 
traction from  Mr.  du  Peyral's  residuary  estate  of  the  income 
paid  to  him  since  last  September,  so  that  in  a  few  weeks  you 
will  have  nothing  more  to  worry  you  in  any  way  whatever. 
What  are  your  plans  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  home,"  she  said,  a  far-off  look  stealing  into 
her  great  brown  eyes. 

And  then,  seeing  that  the  doctor  maintained  silence,  as  if 
waiting  for  an  explanation,  she  added, 

"  To  Greece,  you  know  ;  that  is  where  my  people  origi- 
nally came  from;  we  have  always  called  it  'home.'  My 
village  lies  between  Pyrgos  and  Corinth,  on  the  Gulf  of 
Lepanto.  I  shall  buy  a  villa  near  the  old  place,  and  die 
forgotten  under  the  same  skies  that  looked  down  upon  the 
hardy  men  of  Argolis,  my  forefathers,  when  they  gave  up 
their  lives  for  the  freedom  of  the  Peloponnesus." 

"  Your  resolution,  madam,  is  an  excellent  one,"  returned 
Van  Boomkamp,  gravely ;  "  the  climate  of  the  Morea  is  the 
one  that  will  give  you  the  completest  rest" — he  had  been 
about  to  say  "  the  longest  life,"  but  he  changed  the  expres- 
sion for  fear  of  alarming  her. 

To  the  young  eclectic  physician,  Mahmoure  was  a  study 
of  intense  interest ;  living,  as  she  did,  at  second-hand,  as  it 
were,  everything  depended  upon  her  remaining  in  a  quiet 
frame  of  mind.  Under  those  circumstances  she  might  live 
to  be  an  old  woman  ;  but  should  any  unforeseen  occurrence 
make  too  heavy  a  draft  upon  her  precarious  vitality,  he  had 
grave  fears  for  her  reason,  if  not  for  her  life.  When,  there- 
fore, the  new  complication  arose — the  throwing  of  the  whole 
estate  into  Chancery,  or  its  American  equivalent,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  enquiries — and  he  saw  that  not  only 


TRANSMIGRA  TION.  1 79 

might  Mahmoure  be  put  to  inconvenience  and  expense  for 
many  months,  but  she  might  be  even  seriously  embarrassed 
by  a  course  of  action  o'f  whose  effects  he  felt  certain  that 
Daphne  Pre'ault,  the  person  principally  concerned,  was  in 
ignorance,  he  came  to  Mahmoure  one  day,  and  finding 
her  nervous,  irritable,  worried,  he  made  to  her  a  proposition 
which  was  sound  on  the  face  of  it. 

"You  can  do  no  good,"  he  said,  "by  remaining  here. 
The  atmosphere  of  antagonism  that  surrounds  you  is  bad ; 
besides,  the  hot  weather  is  at  hand,  and  you  must  leave  the 
city  anyhow.  Why  not  go  to  Europe  ? — to  London,  en  route 
for  Greece  ?  Your  affairs  do  not  in  any  way  require  your 
presence  here ;  you  can  safely  leave  them  in  the  hands  of 
your  attorney,  whom  I  have  ascertained  to  be  a  man  of 
absolutely  unimpeachable  rectitude.  By  such  a  course 
many  objects  would  be  served  :  in  the  first  place,  you  will 
obtain  the  change  of  air  and  scene  in  great  need  of  which 
you  stand  at  present  ;  in  the  second,  you  will  see,  if  you  like, 
Miss  Daphne  Preault,  and  doubtless  come  to  some  under- 
standing with  her  which  will  be  to  your  mutual  advantage  ; 
in  the  third,  you  will  be  nearer  your  ultimate  destination, 
and  the  rest  in  London  will  serve  the  double  purpose  of 
shortening  a  journey  that  might  overtax  your  strength,  and 
of  enabling  you  to  complete  many  arrangements  before  you 
proceed  to  the  Peloponnese.  I  may  add,  that  I  have  my- 
self accepted  an  invitation  to  proceed  at  once  to  Paris  to 
assist  Dr.  Charcot  in  certain  observations  important  to  men- 
tal science  which  he  is  making  at  the  Salpetriere.  I  shall 
stay  in  London  for  some  weeks  before  crossing  the  channel, 
and  shall  therefore  be  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  you,  on  your 
health,  and  on  your  business,  with  a  beneficial  result  to  all 
three.  Think  it  over." 

Mahmoure  du  Peyral  thought  it  over,  with  the  result  that, 
the  next  time  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  called  upon  her,  her 
mind  was  made  up,  and  her  arrangements  were  completed  ; 
and  a  fortnight  later  the  passenger-list  of  the  Royal  Mail 
Steamer  Anatolia  contained  the  names  of  Schuyler  Van 


1 8O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Boomkamp  and  Madame  du  Peyral ;  and  a  grave,  ascetic- 
looking  man  with  steel-gray  eyes  and  gold  pince-nez  might 
have  been  seen  pacing  her  decks  as  she  ploughed  across  the 
Atlantic  in  proper  "  Cunarder  "  style,  in  the  company  of  a 
woman,  small  but  exquisitely  made,  with  an  oval,  oriental 
face,  great,  soft  brown  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  tawny  hair,  with 
which  the  north-west  wind  seemed  to  love  to  play  for  very 
wantonness,  to  display  its  glossy  beauties  to  the  gulls  and 
petrels. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   REINCARNATION    OF   DAPHNE. 

"WELL,  and  what  does  Critchett  say?" 

"  Hardly  anything  ;  he  says  that  by  a  miracle  there  might 
be  enough  of  the  optic  nerve  left  on  which  to  form  the  basis 
of  a  hope  that,  when  the  inflammation  has  gone  down,  sight 
may  be  partially  restored." 

"And  are  both  eyes  equally  injured?  " 

"Yes,  or  apparently  so." 

"  Poor  old  Gabriel !  " 

"  Yes,  it's  hard,  isn't  it  ?  just  at  the  moment  he  had  made 
a  name.  However,  let's  hope  for  the  best." 

The  speakers  were  Bernard  Rawlinson  and  Eric  Tre- 
vanion.  They  had  met  just  as  Eric  left  the  Hawleigh's  house 
at  the  conclusion  of  a  visit  of  enquiry,  about  a  fortnight  after 
the  explosion  in  Gabriel's  studio.  A  novelist  is  not  allowed 
by  the  Canons  of  the  Cult  to  sympathize,  himself,  with  his 
heroes,  but  it  must  be  conceded  that  a  sadder  tale  was  never 
told  than  that  of  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  blindness.  For  an 
artist  to  be  blinded  is  certainly  a  tragedy  of  the  saddest 
sort ;  but  how  much  more  sad  if  that  artist  be  at  the  outset 
only,  of  a  successful  career !  Here  was  Gabriel,  however, 
poor  and  in  love.  The  moment  had  arrived  when  his 
anxieties  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  Fortune,  won  at  length 
by  his  persistent  wooing,  had  smiled  upon  him  and  extended 
her  hand,  and  at  the  moment  that  he  stepped  forth  to  grasp 
it,  the  blow  fell  that  shattered  in  an  instant  every  hope  that 
he  had  built  up  for  himself ;  and,  boy  as  he  was,  sitting  for 
the  most  part  alone  in  his  darkened  room,  the  first  threads 
of  gray  began  to  peep  among  the  strands  of  light-brown  hair 
that  fell  in  picturesque  confusion  over  his  brows. 

181 


1 82  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Mrs.  Hawleigh  seemed — as  well  she  might — crushed  by 
the  blow  which  had  fallen  upon  them,  the  culminating  point 
of  all  these  years  of  struggle  against  poverty.  For  the 
moment,  fortunately,  money  was  not  lacking,  for  the  great 
Academy  picture  having  been  purchased  by  a  celebrated 
amateur  for  what,  to  Mrs.  Hawleigh  and  Gabriel,  seemed  a 
vast  sum,  the  news  of  his  accident  spread  like  wildfire,  and 
it  being  currently  reported  that  Dr.  Critchett  had  declared 
his  blindness  to  be  incurable,  dealers  and  collectors  alike 
had  contended  for  Gabriel's  previous  works,  which,  by  the 
advice  of  Sir  George  B ,  were  sold  by  auction  at  Chris- 
tie's, and  brought  prices  such  as  Gabriel  had  never  dreamed 
of  in  connection  with  his  own  work;  and — such  is  the  irony 
of  fate — many  a  canvas  that  had  been  rejected  by  the 
Institute,  the  Academy,  and  the  Grosvenor,  went  for  prices 
even  higher  than  that  realized  by  "  Sunshine  in  the  Fog." 

The  fact  that  Sir  George  B bought  the  first  picture  in 

the  sale,  and  "  Miss  Pre'ault,  the  eminent  lady-artist,"  the 
second,  may  have  contributed  to  this  result ;  at  any  rate,  on 
the  Monday  following  the  sale,  Mrs.  Hawleigh  received  a 
cheque  that  relieved  her  mind  of  any  anxiety  as  regards 
either  the  proximate  or  immediately  ultimate  future. 

The  eminent  oculist  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  case 
offered  but  one  shadow  of  hope :  as  soon  as  he  could  be 
safely  removed,  and  could  without  danger  be  exposed  to  the 
light  of  day,  Gabriel  was  to  be  taken  to  a  little  cottage  on 
the  borders  of  Dartmoor,  almost  on  the  boundary  line  which 
divides  Devonshire  and  Cornwall;  and  after  a  few  months  of 
this  quiet,  pure,  and  invigorating  atmosphere,  the  best  or  the 
worst  would  be  known,  and  Gabriel  Hawleigh  would  know 
irrevocably  whether  he  might  one  day  look  again  on  the 
faces  and  scenes  he  loved  so  well,  "or  whether  he  were 
doomed  to  be  led  through  life — blind ! 

And  Maye  ?  Maye  Trevethick — what  of  her  ?  Ah,  sirs  ! 
who  shall  pry  into  the  secrets  of  a  woman's  heart  ?  How 
shall  I  dare  to  say  what  were  her  thoughts  as  she  sat  in  the 
dark  with  her  poor  blind  Gabriel,  holding  his  hand  in  hers 


THE  REINCARNATION  OF  DAPHNE.  183 

in  silence,  or  talking  gently  to  him  of  their  plans,  of  the 
events  in  the  colony,  such  as  she  knew  them,  of  the  rumours 
from  the  world  outside  Holland  Street  which  came  to  her 
and  which  she  memorized  in  case  they  might  interest  the  boy 
whose  light  had  become  so  great  a  darkness.  In  all  the 
unwritten  history  of  faithful  women,  no  story  is  sadder  than 
hers,  no  devotion  more  heroic,  no  love  and  duty  more 
sacred  :  to  tend  Gabriel,  to  anticipate  his  needs  and  humour 
his  sick-man's  fancies,  had  become  her  life  ;  and  she  lived 
it,  showing  no  trace  of  aught  but  a  gentle,  feminine  devotion 
to  the  lot  that  had  become  hers,  whilst — well !  who  shall  pry 
into  the  secrets  of  a  woman's  heart  ? 

And  so  the  days  passed  on  and  grew  into  weeks. 

Of  Eric  Trevanion  in  these  times  some  of  those  who  had 
eyes  saw  very  little,  whilst  again  some  who  had  eyes  saw 
a  good  deal  !  He  did  not  mix  very  much  with  the  colony 
now  ;  he  was  poor,  and,  like  every  man  who  from  affluence  has 
come  to  poverty,  he  felt  it  almost  as  a  disgrace,  and  no  longer 
held  his  head  high  in  the  air  with  a  merry  word  or  a  proud 
little  laugh  for  everyone. 

The  Princess  Daphne  watched  him  with  a  light  of  deep 
anxiety  in  her  great  grave  eyes,  as  he  would  sit  at  his  desk, 
often  for  hours  together,  crushed,  as  it  were,  beneath  the 
load  of  disappointment  that  began  to  take  a  tangible  form  in 
his  increasing  penury.  Little  by  little  his  bric-a-brac,  his 
pictures,  his  curios,  his  Eastern  carpets  had  been  sold  to  pay 
the  landwoman,  the  baker,  the  grocer,  and  other  people  neces- 
sary in  the  scheme  of  even  an  artist's  existence.  And  every 
time  the  Princess  made  him  accept  some  small  loan,  the 
operation  became  more  and  more  distasteful  to  him.  He 
had  even  begged  the  elder  Trevanion  to  give  him  another 
six  months'  law,  but  in  vain.  "  Return  here,  settle  down, 
and  marry  a  county  girl,"  had  responded  the  Autocrat  of 
Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor,  "  and  I'll  pay  your  debts,  and  you 
shall  be  a  man  of  independent  means ;  but  I  refuse  to  keep 
you,  as  you  are  living  now,  in  opulence,  luxury,  and  debauch- 
ery " — and  Eric  would  look  round  his  little  retreat  with  a 


1 84  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

bitter  smile,  and  wonder  what  the  governor's  ideas  of  opu- 
lence, luxury,  and  debauchery  were. 

"  Well  ? "  the  Princess  would  query  sometimes,  after  a 
more  than  ordinarily  protracted  pause. 

"  Nothing — capital  and  labour  don't  seem  to  be  hitting  it 
off  together  in  my  case,  Daph.  An  author  seems  to  me  to 
be  very  like  a  man  who  has  found  a  well  of  natural  gas  on 
his  farm,  but  hasn't  the  capital  to  lay  down  the  pipes  which 
shall  conduct  it  into  the  houses  of  the  community.  The 
pipe-man  is  the  publisher,  and  I  haven't  found  one  to  under- 
take my  gas  yet." 

"  But  the  gas  exists  all  the  same — stop  the  flow  until  the 
capitalist  comes  along." 

"  I  can't ;  it's  too  strong.  At  present  my  books  are  in  the 
limited  edition  of  one  manuscript  copy,  as  Alexander  the 
Great  used  to  insist  upon  Aristotle's  works  being  produced. 
It  won't  do  me  much  good  if  three  thousand  years  hence  my 
writings  become  as  popular  as  his.  Even  the  Chaldean 
author  who  cut  his  work  on  the  wall  of  a  palace  at  Nineveh 
had  a  better  '  show,'  in  the  American  sense,  than  I ;  and  the 
gentle  Babylonian  who  wrote  romances  on  a  cylindrical  seal, 
had  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  a  copy  of  his 
book  reached  the  world  every  time  the  owner  sealed  a  letter. 
It  isn't  good  to  make  a  living  by  literature,  dear." 

"  It's  better  than  making  it  by  the  means  that  so  many 
men  employ,  Eric.  The  easiest  way  to  make  a  living,  to  my 
mind,  is  by  inheritance,  the  next  is  by  marriage,  and  the 
next  is  by  being  a  bachelor — all  of  them  nice,  easy  occupa- 
tions. Wait  a  bit,  old  man,  and  you'll  coin  money." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  wait  a  bit  I  shall  have  to — and 
take  the  chances  of  being  caught  at  it !  I  quite  agree  with 
the  philosopher  who  said,  '  Poverty  is  no  sin,  but  all  the 
same  it's  damned  uncomfortable.'  They  talk  about  the 
merry  Bohemianism  of  a  literary  life.  Egad,  Daph  !  I  feel 
about  as  merry  as  a  stuffed  bear  with  corns,  put  out  in  the 
rain  as  a  furrier's  advertisement." 

"Well,  try  something  else — promote  companies  like  the 


THE  RE1NCARNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  \  8  5 

Eastons'  friend,  Baker,  and  take  the  chance  of  imprisonment 
for  fraud — as  he  does." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  I  might  get  up  a  good  sporting  company  or 
two.  I  had  an  uncle  once — a  bishop — who  got  up  a  joint- 
stock  concern  for  bringing  about  the  fulfilment  of  scripture 
prophecies.  He  was  great  on  the  law  and  the  prophets,  but 
when  the  other  directors  found  that  he  wanted  to  lay  down 
all  the  law  and  take  up  all  the  profits,  they  didn't  sink  the 
capital,  and  consequently  (paradoxical  as  it  may  seem)  the 
company  didn't  float.  And  as  for  the  bishop !  Solomon 
in  all  his  fury  was  not  enraged  like  one  of  these." 

"  Eric,  I  believe  you're  descending  to  the  kind  of  joke 
which  is  called  a  pun.  When  I  said  '  do  as  Mr.  Sturton- 
Baker  does,'  I  meant  in  finance,  not  in  vulgarity." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  hard  on  Baker ;  it's 
through  him  and  some  friend  of  his  in  New  York,  to  satisfy 
some  private  grudge  or  other,  it  would  seem,  that  we  got  on 
the  track  of  Mr.  Paul  du  Peyral's  marriage,  and  recovered 
for  you  the  fortune  which  is  to  be  yours  in  the  course  of  a 
week  or  two." 

"Well,  I'm  very  sorry  he  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 
Couldn't  you  have  got  anyone  else  ?  " 

"  Nobody  so  cheap." 

"  All  right !  as  you  are  the  person  principally  concerned 
in  that  money  that  I  don't  want — I — 

"Daphne!  how  dare  you?"  cried  Eric,  flaming  up  at 
once  ;  "  how  dare  you  insult  me  so  ?  True,  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  owe  you  a  certain  sum  of  money  that  you  cheated 
me  into  taking.  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  insult 
me  by  suggesting  that  I  have  any  thoughts  for  myself  in 
watching  your  interests  in  America." 

"Then  why  bother  yourself  ?     /didn't  ask  you  to." 

The  old  dangerous  light  was  coming  into  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke,  and  finally,  starting  to  her  feet,  she  cried,  in  a  hard, 
altered  voice : 

"  Good  heavens,  man  !  can't  you  tell  the  difference  be- 
tween love  and  egotism  ?  If  I'd  wanted  this  money  of  my 


1 86  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

cousin's  I'd  have  married  Paul  du  Peyral — sometimes  I 
wish  I  had.  Anyhow,  he's  man  enough  to  be  a  good  scamp, 
instead  of  a  desponding,  faint-hearted  creature  who  won't 
raise  a  finger  to  help  himself  except  in  his  own  useless  way. 
Bah  !  I'm  tired  of  your  high  moral  tone  !  " 

Eric  rose,  and  took  his  hat  preparatory  to  leaving  in 
silence — hurt  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  As  he  turned,  the 
Princess  Daphne,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  head,  fell  for- 
ward upon  the  floor. 

In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  side,  had  raised  her  gently 
and  laid  her  on  the  lounge.  Not  a  sign  of  life  !  not  a  throb 
of  the  heart!  Her  face  was  deathly  white,  her  hands  were 
tightly  clinched.  He  had  never  seen  her  like  this  before, 
and  with  a  strange  feeling  of  terror  he  sent  off  post-haste, 
not  for  the  doctor  without  an  idea  beyond  indigestion, 
but  for  an  eminent  physician,  whose  waiting-rooms  are  the 
rendezvous  of  half  the  queens  of  London  society.  As  good 
luck  would  have  it,  the  great  man  was  at  home  and  alone, 
and  within  an  hour  of  the  Princess'  seizure  he  arrived  in 
Holland  Street. 

Daphne  had  been  put  to  bed  by  the  distraught  Clytie,  and 

after  making  a  rapid  and  silent  examination,  Doctor  P 

joined  Eric  in  the  studio. 

"  Your  wife  ?  "  queried  he,  briefly. 

"  No." 

"  Ah  !  "  and  he  took  a  scrap  of  paper  to  write  a  prescrip- 
tion. 

"  Has  she  ever  been  like  this  before  ?  " 

"  Never.  She  has  had  curious  fainting  fits ;  there  have 
been  times  when  she  has  apparently  suffered  from  a  kind  of 
obsession — but  it  has  never  been  protracted  and  profound 
like  this." 

"  Ah  !     Who  is  her  regular  attendant  ?  " 

"  Dr. ;  he  lives  opposite." 

"  Send  for  him." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  doctor  we  already  know  arrived, 


THE  REtNCARNA  T10N  OF  DAPHNE.  1 87 

and  metaphorically  grovelled  before  his  superior,  to  whom 
nevertheless  he  remarked  immediately  and  consequentially : 

"It  is,  I  presume,  one  of  Miss  Preault's  recurrent  fainting 
fits — resulting  from  a  slight  stomachic  disorder.  I  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  exhibiting — " 

"  The  spectacle  of  a  schoolboy  playing  at  being  a  doctor," 

rapped  out  Dr.  P .  "It  has  nothing  to  do  with  faintness 

of  any  kind  ;  and  as  for  indigestion — pooh  !  " 

"  You  think  it  grave  ?  "  said  Eric,  anxiously. 

"  Very  grave,"  replied  the  physician.  "  The  cause  is 
beyond  me — the  effect  is  only  too  apparent." 

"  And  that  is  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  to  Miss  Pre'ault  ? "  said  Dr.  P ,  taking 

Eric  aside. 

"  She  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"  Sir,  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  you — I  can  give  you  no 
hope." 

"  None  whatever  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  When  will  the  end  come  ? " 

"  At  about  midnight." 

Eric  turned,  burying  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  If,  when  she  recovers  consciousness,  as  she  may  do, 
there  is  any  delirium,  let  her  have  this  prescription,"  said 
the  physician,  on  leaving.  "  I  can  do  no  more — I  regret  to 
have  been  able  to  do  so  little.  Good  afternoon."  And  he 
left  the  house,  obsequiously  attended  by  the  local  G.  P., 
whom  he  indignantly  ignored. 

At  midnight  a  single  lamp  burned  dimly  in  the  Princess 
Daphne's  room,  and  Eric,  who  had  been  sitting  motionless 
beside  her  since  the  moment  her  death-sentence  had  been 
pronounced,  rose  and  bent  over  her  as,  with  a  sigh,  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his — speechless — motion- 
less— but  conscious  of  his  presence.  Once  or  twice,  in 
answer  to  the  appeals  he  made  to  her  in  a  passionate 
whisper,  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  would  fain  have  answered 
him,  but  no  sound  broke  the  silence  in  answer  to  his  prayer, 


1 88  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHKE. 

save  the  gurgling  sobs  of  the  black  woman,  who  crouched 
upon  her  knees  in  a  corner,  alternately  choking  and  mutter- 
ing incomprehensible  invocations  to  her  poly-personal  deity 
in  jade. 

This  continued  until  a  quarter  to  one ;  then,  on  the  night 
air,  there  was  borne  to  his  ears  the  last  swell  of  some 
chaunt  that  died  in  the  Carmelite  church  near  by.  Roused 
by  this,  a  dog  howled  behind  the  house,  a  fretful,  unhappy 
howl,  broken  by  little  yaps  before  it  settled  into  its  lugubri- 
ous breve  and  descending  semibreve.  The  Princess  moved 
and  seemed  to  say  something,  but  if  so,  her  whisper  was 
drowned  by  a  burst  of  drunken  laughter  that  rose  from  some 
band  of  revellers  who  had  taken  Holland  Street  on  their 
way  home. 

When  all  was  still,  a  faint  flush  came  into  Daphne's 
cheek,  and  Eric,  his  heart  bursting  with  grief,  laid  his  tyead 
close  to  hers,  lifting  her  beautiful  arms  and  circling  them 
around  his  neck  as  he  enfolded  her  body  in  a  last  distracted 
embrace.  Clytie  had  risen  and  was  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 

"Eric — my  love — "  whispered  the  Princess  Daphne, 
royal  still,  though  in  the  arms  of  death,  "  I  am  going — 
remember — I  loved  you,  and  none  but  you — you  were  my 
life — my  religion — I  had  no  thought  that  was  not  yours. 
Good-bye — keep  the  old  place  where  we've  been  so  happy. 
I  can't  see  you,  darling — but  I  know  you  are  there.  Good- 
night ! " 

The  head  fell  back  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms — he  could 
feel  her  dying  as  he  held  her.  The  already  cold  body  grew 
colder,  the  live  feeling  seemed  to  die  out  of  it,  the  eyes 
opened  and  then  half  closed,  the  lips  parted  a  little,  and  a 
sigh  escaped  them  which  Eric  caught  in  a  wild,  agonized 
kiss.  The  body  was  heavy.  The  arms  had  fallen  from 

about  his  neck.     The  Princess  Daphne  was  dead  ! 

******* 

As  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  her  head  lying  back  upon  his 


THE  REINCARNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  \  89 

hand,  the  silence  of  the  death-scene  was  broken  by  a  shrill 
cry  from  Clytie : 

"  Oh,  Gord  !  Mars'  Eric— look  dar !  " 

Her  white  eyes  shone  in  the  darkness,  as  she  pointed 
with  a  withered  black  finger  to  the  side  of  the  bed  opposite 
to  Eric. 

Nothing ! 

"  What  do  you  mean,  woman  ?  "  said  Eric,  angry  through 
his  grief  at  the  interruption. 

"Yaas,  dar — yaas,  dar! — oh,  Mars'  Eric — don'  yo  see 
'um  ? — dar,  now  he  touch  my  honey  chile — oh,  Missy  Daph  !  " 

Eric  had  turned  his  head  to  where  the  black  woman's 
finger  had  indicated  a  figure  invisible  to  him.  Now  he 
turned  again  to  Daphne.  Good  God !  was  he  mad  ?  A 
spark  lit  the  great  eyes,  which  had  opened  a  little  farther ; 
the  lips  gave  utterance  to  a  little  gasp,  as  the  woman  swal- 
lowed and  sighed ;  a  single  strong  beat  announced  the  rea- 
wakened heart,  as  Daphne  Preault  gave  a  wild  look  in  the 
direction  of  Clytie's  unseen  Thing,  and  exclaiming,  in  almost 
her  strongest  voice : 

"Paul!"  fell  back  upon  the  bed  insensible,  but  alive. 

Alive  !  Eric  rose  to  his  feet,  an  icy-cold  sensation  of  terror 
seizing  in  its  grip  every  fibre  of  his  body.  What  had  hap- 
pened ?  He  hardly  dared  to  think.  Clytie  was  once  more 
crouched  in  her  original  corner,  no  longer  sobbing,  but 
praying  volubly  to  the  idol — returning  thanks  doubtless  for 
his  recent  performance. 

Eric  seated  himself  and  wrote  on  a  leaf  of  his  note-book  : 
"  Crisis  over — she  is  alive — must  see  you — can  you  come  at 
onceT' 

"  Clytie,"  said  he,  "  you  love  your  mistress ;  if  you  want 
to  save  her  life,  take  this  to  Hanover  Square  at  once. 
Don't  lose  a  second — find  a  cab  at  the  church ;  "  and  with  a 
nimbleness  that  Clytie  would  never  have  confessed  to  being 
capable  of,  the  darkie  idolater  was  gone. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  back  with  another  slip  of  paper. 
"Am  in  bed — very  sleepy — will  come  in  the  morning — a  miracle 


1 90  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

has  happened — she  will  live — give  my  prescription  if  necessary." 
That  was  all — and  somehow  Eric  felt  that  it  was  enough. 

The  Princess  was  breathing  peacefully — her  unconscious- 
ness seemed  to  have  given  place  to  sleep.  And  she  slept 
till  morning.  She  was  restored  to  him  from  the  dead.  Re- 
stored, did  I  say?  Well,  hardly!  "The  Princess"  had 
reached  that  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourne  no 
traveller  returns.  Daphne  Preault  came  to  life  !  She  was 

never  "  The  Princess  Daphne  "  again. 

******* 

The  traces  of  fire  faded  slowly  from  Gabriel  Hawleigh's 
face.  The  agony  of  inflammation  had  left  his  cicatrized 
eye-balls,  and,  with  carefully  shaded  eyes,  the  happy  young 
artist  of  a  month  before  felt  his  way  timidly  about  the  house 
and  studio  he  knew  so  well.  With  trembling  hands  he 
would  lightly  touch  the  furniture  and  hangings,  and  a  sharp 
contraction  of  pain  would  come  over  his  features  when  his 
hands  met  his  paint-box  or  palette,  or  other  artistic  para- 
phernalia. The  absence  of  the  pictures  which  had  lain 
about  seemed  to  hurt  him,  and  they  kept  him  as  much  as 
possible  out  of  the  studio,  whilst  "  the  boys  "  would  come  in 
and  sit  and  talk  with  him,  avoiding  with  all  the  tact  of  which 
they  were  capable,  the  subject  of  his  affliction.  Sometimes 
unconsciously  someone  would  bring  his  mind  back  to  it  by 
accident,  and  then  a  sharp  spasm  of  grief  used  to  shake  him, 
whilst  Maye  or  Mrs.  Hawleigh  dexterously  turned  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  doctor  whose  fiat  had  gone  forth  that  Gabriel  was  to 
be  removed  as  soon  as  possible  to  the  moors,  was  not  one  of 
those  immortalized  medicos  who 

"  come  in  haste, 
To  suit  their  physic  to  the  patient's  taste  ;  " 

for  the  thought  of  leaving  Holland  Street,  which  he  knew  so 
well,  for  a  place  that  he  might  possibly  never  see,  was  a  per- 
fect nightmare  to  the  blind  man.  But  Dr.  Richardson  was 
inexorable  on  the  point  :  setting  aside  the  benefit  that  he 
hoped  might  be  derived  from  the  pure,  heath-scented  atmos- 


THE  REINCA  KNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  1 9 1 

phere  of  Dartmoor,  the  continual  brooding  over  familiar 
surroundings  that  he  could  only  feel,  even  in  the  weeks 
which  preceded  his  departure,  began  to  have  a  perceptible 
influence  on  Gabriel's  mind — he  was  becoming  irritable, 
fretful,  impatient,  as  blind  men  are  apt  to  do  when  ill-health 
MS  added  to  their  infirmity ;  and  therefore,  as  soon  as  it  was 
possible  to  move  him,  they  started  for  the  cottage  that  they 
had  found  with  the  assistance  of  Eric  Trevanion's  knowl- 
edge of  the  neighbourhood,  for  it  was  comparatively — for 
Dartmoor — close  to  Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor. 

No  better  description  of  their  retreat  could  be  given  than 
that  contained  in  Mrs.  Hawleigh's  first  letter  to  Daphne 
Preault.  "  Here  we  are,"  she  wrote,  "  on  the  borders  of 
Dartmoor,  three  hours'  drive  from  the  nearest  town,  and  a 
Sabbath  day's  journey  from  London.  I  do  think  Dr.  Rich- 
ardson might  have  sent  us  to  some  more  civilized  corner  of 
the  world.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  banished  forever  from  every- 
one I  have  ever  known  in  my  life  ;  but  I  don't  complain,  as 
it  is  for  my  poor  boy's  sake.  Miles  of  moor  all  round  us  ! 
and  I  fancy  the  nearest  civilized  habitation  is  the  convict 
prison — if  one  can  call  that  civilized.  For  my  part  I  live  in 
constant  dread  of  a  sudden  invasion  of  escaped  convicts,  in 
horrid,  unbecoming  striped  stockings,  and  with  things  like 
bluebottles,  supposed  to  represent  broad  arrows,  all  over 
them.  But  the  air  is  lovely,  and  already  Gabriel  seems  less 
fretful  than  he  was  in  Holland  Street." 

And  so,  for  a  time  at  least,  the  Hawleighs  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  the  life  of  the  Holland-Street  colony,  and 
Eric,  for  one,  had  perhaps  realized  what  a  loss  they  had  sus- 
tained in  the  departure  of  the  genial  matron  and  the  grave- 
eyed  maid  who  raised  the  little  house  from  a  studio  to  the 
sweet  dignity  of  a  home.  Yes — he  missed  them,  for  since 
the  recovery  of  Daphne,  an  indefinable  and  almost  weird 
change  had  taken  place  in  her  personality. 

Even  to  Eric  the  change  was  inexplicable.  Daphne  Pre- 
ault was,  if  possible,  even  more  beautiful  than  she  had  been 
before  her  illness,  but  it  was  a  different  kind  of  beauty. 


1 92  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Her  carriage  had  lost  dignity  and  had  acquired  grace ;  her 
great,  dark  eyes  were  matchless  as  of  yore,  but  their  look 
was  no  longer  calm  and  imperious,  as  it  had  been  when  she 
raised  them  to  his,  at  the  conclusion  of  her  song  on  the  night 
of  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  Bohemian  soiree ;  the  lovely  curves  of 
her  mouth  had  lost  much  of  their  firmness  and  had  acquired 
a  certain  soft,  flickering  smile  that  was  inviting  in  its  subtle 
mockery,  but  no  longer  benign  and  pitying  as  it  had  been 
when  first  she  smiled  upon  Eric  Trevanion  ;  and  in  her  atti- 
tudes, as  she  lounged  about  the  studio,  there  was  a  languor 
which  she  had  not  possessed  before.  In  her  music  there 
was  a  quaint,  sensuous  harmony  that  had  not  characterized  it 
when  she  was  "  The  Princess  Daphne  " ;  in  her  speech,  a  word 
here,  a  glance  or  a  smile  there,  betrayed  a  lower  standard  of 
intelligence  ;  and  in  her  painting  the  detail  of  Meissonier  had 
given  place  to  the  morbid  minutia  of  Van  Beers  and  of  the 
latest  French  school.  She  would  devote  hours  to  painting 
some  demi-mondaine,  sleeping  carelessly  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion in  an  absolutely  "  esoteric  "  attitude ;  and  at  the  con- 
clusion of  her  work  she  would  draw  a  brush  full  of  bright 
vermillion  across  the  canvas,  and  tell  Eric  that  it  was  a 
painting  in  his  school — "  An  Impression  of  Humanity  in 
Primary  Colours."  Into  her  caresses  there  crept  ay>  tie  sais 
quoi  of  inexplicable  earthliness,  that  almost  repelled  whilst 
it  intoxicated  him.  The  change  she  had  announced  as  possi- 
ble in  her  had  taken  place.  The  savage  side  of  her  nature 
seemed  to  have  got  the  upper  hand. 

She  was  less  womanly,  and  more  female. 

These  were  dark  days  for  Eric.  His  poverty  told  upon 
his  spirits  ;  he  no  longer  cared  to  go  into  society,  as  here- 
tofore, and  it  was  only  at  rare  intervals  that  he  could  be 
tempted  forth  into  the  world  of  men.  Another  factor  which 
conduced  to  his  distaste  for  society  was  that  Daphne  be- 
trayed a  tendency  to  cross-question  and  catechise  his  going- 
out  and  coming-in  ;  she  would  chaff  him  about  the  women  he 
met  at  dinner-parties,  and  almost  make  him  "  scenes  "  about 
them — in  a  word,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  friction 


THE  REINCARNATION  OF  DAPHNE.  193 

of  the  chain  that  bound  him  to  Daphne  Preault.  It  is  a 
horrible  thought  for  a  man  that  he  is  bound  to  a  woman  by 
ties  of  financial  dependence,  even  when  the  accord  between 
them  is  perfect ;  but  when  a  certain  uneasiness  has  sprung 
up  between  them,  it  becomes  frightful ;  and  Eric  began  to 
experience  a  horrible  feeling  of  revulsion  when  Daphne  began 
to  claim  as  a  right  the  little  services  he  had  felt  himself  so 
honoured  by  her  accepting  as  favours.  Of  one  acquaintance 
of  his  she  was  especially  jealous :  this  was  the  eminent 

Doctor  P ,  who   had  apparently  taken   a   fancy  to   this 

grave  young  man,  and  had  asked  him  to  call  upon  him  in 
Hanover  Square,  an  invitation  of  which  he  had  eagerly 

taken    advantage.     One   day   Dr.  P had   called,    semi- 

professionally,  he  said,  upon  Miss  Prdault,  and  after  he  had 
gone,  she  had  said  : 

"  I  never  want  to  see  that  man  again — I  don't  trust  him  ; 
he  seems  to  be  watching  us  all  the  time  he  talks  ;  he'd  like 
to  separate  us  if  he  could — and  I'll  take  good  care  he 
doesn't.  Mind  that,  Eric  !  " 

The  speech  had  jarred  upon  him,  more  in  its  tone  than 
in  the  words  she  used,  and  the  next  time  he  called  upon 

Dr.  P ,  he  said  nothing  about  it  to  her.     It  was  the  first 

action  of  his  life,  since  he  had  known  her,  that  he  had  not 
told  her  all  about. 

One  day  she  was  lying  on  the  lounge,  reading  a  news- 
paper, one  shapely  foot  trailing  on  the  floor,  the  other  lying 
on  a  cushion  at  the  foot  of  the  lounge,  when  suddenly  she 
looked  up  and  said,  "  Eric,  we  must  see  this  new  play  at 
the  Prince's  Theatre  ;  let's  go  on  Wednesday." 

"  Very  sorry,  chdrie"  he  had  replied,  "  but  I  can't." 
"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  returned  she  ;  "  77/get  the  tickets  ; 
it  wont  cost  you  anything." 

He  turned  very  pale,  and  then  very  red,  as  he  answered  : 
"It's  not  that,  dear;  I  have  an  engagement." 
"  Oh — indeed  !  you  didn't  tell  me — what  is  it  ?  " 

"A  dinner-party  at  Dr.  P 's  in  Hanover  Square." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Daphne,  "  I  don't  wonder  you  said  noth- 
'3 


194  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

ing  about  it :  you're  always  with  that  odious  man,  it  seems 
to  me — he  interferes  with  everything." 

"  You  can  hardly  say  that,  Daphne  ;  it's  only  the  second 
time  I've  dined  there.  Surely  you  don't  mind  my  going ; 
one  meets  interesting  people  at  his  house,  and  this  dinner 
is  in  honour  of  a  celebrated  American  doctor  who  has  just 
arrived." 

"  Come  and  sit  down  here." 

He  sank  on  the  lounge  by  her  side,  a  little  nervously,  and 
she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  drew  his  head  close 
down  to  hers. 

"  Don't  go,  darling,"  she  whispered  ;  "  stay  here  with  me 
— I'll  give  up  the  play,  if  you'll  give  up  the  dinner — I  don't 
want  you  to  go — that  doctor  doesn't  like  me,  and  I  know 
he'll  separate  us  if  he  can." 

"  But.  my  dear  girl — I  must  go.  I've  accepted,  and  I  can't 
put  off  a  man  like  Dr.  P at  the  last  moment." 

"  You  are  determined  ?  " 

"  Well— yes,  dear." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then !  go  to  your  horrid  dinner-party. 
Anything  to  get  away  from  me,  and  go  about  flirting  with 
other  women.  I  wonder  you  don't  give  in  to  your  dear 
father  and  go  and  marry  '  a  county  girl,'  in  Cornwall — it 
would  about  suit  yojj.  You'd  probably  suit  her,  now  I've 
made  a  man  of  you,  and  you've  got  tired  of  me." 

She  pushed  his  head  roughly  away  from  her,  and  turned 
her  face  into  the  cushions  of  the  lounge,  pretending  to  go 
to  sleep.  Eric  sighed  deeply  as  he  returned  to  his  writing- 
table.  But  his  mind  was  made  up — he  would  dine  at  Dr. 
P 's  on  the  following  Wednesday. 

Until  the  evening  in  question  nothing  more  was  said,  on 
either  side,  on  the  subject.  When  seven  o'clock  on  Wednes- 
day evening  arrived,  however,  and  Eric  was  just  leaving  the 
house  to  go  home  and  dress  for  his  party,  as  he  passed  the 
dining-room  he  saw,  through  the  open  door,  the  table  rather 
coquettishly  laid  for  two — just  as  in  the  first  days  of  their 
love.  His  first  impulse  was  to  return  to  the  studio  and  ask 


THE  REINCARNATION  OF  DAPHNE.  195 

for  an  explanation  ;  his  second  was  to  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,  and  with  a  little  proud  toss  of  his  head  he  passed  on 
and  across  the  street.  Whilst  he  dressed,  however,  the  one 
thought  that  surged  through  his  brain  was,  "  Whom  does  she 
expect  ? — whom  does  she  expect  ?  " 

He  had  almost  lulled  his  mind  to  rest  by  the  artificially- 
produced  conviction  that  Daphne,  having  been  stricken  with 
a  horror  of  being  alone,  had  sent  for  Sylvia  or  Eva  Easton 
to  dine  with  her.  But  why  had  she  not  told  him  ?  This  was 
a  question  which  solved  itself  as  he  stood  at  the  looking- 
glass  in  his  window  tying  his  cravat.  It  was  just  half  past 
seven,  when  a  cab  drove  up  to  Miss  Preault's  door,  and 
Mr.  Charles  Sturton-Baker,  springing  out,  disappeared  into 
the  house.  It  was  with  a  queer,  strained  sensation,  like  a 
nasty  taste  in  his  mouth  which  he  could  not  get  rid  of,  that 
Eric  Trevanion  took  an  omnibus  at  St.  Mary  Abbot's  and 
proceeded,  by  way  of  Bond  Street,  to  Hanover  Square  ;  and 
though  the  dinner  was  interesting,  and  the  American  doctor 
was  in  every  respect  a  remarkable  man,  his  soul  was  in 
Holland  Street  all  the  time,  and  as  soon  as  the  first  lady 
gave  the  signal  for  departure  at  eleven  o'clock,  he  also  made 
his  escape  to  regain  Holland  Street  on  foot,  in  the  fresh  air 
of  the  cool  summer  night. 

Miss  Daphne  Preault's  house  was  quite  dark,  and  he 
stood  on  the  pavement  in  front,  deliberating  whether  to  go 
in  as  usual,  or  not,  for  some  minutes,  his  latch-key  in  his 
hand,  his  heart  beating  with  that  strong,  measured  thud  that 
the  coolest  of  us  have  experienced  in  moments  of  agitation, 
however  impassive  and  unconscious  we  may  outwardly  ap- 
pear to  be. 

At  last  he  persuaded  himself  that  to  refrain  from  going 
in  would  be,  in  the  first  place,  cowardly  in  him,  and  in  the 
second,  an  insult  to  Daphne,  so  he  turned  the  key  and 
stepped  through  the  house  into  the  studio,  which  he  could 
see  from  the  hall-door  was  illuminated.  As  he  walked  down 
the  little  passage,  how  he  prayed  that  he  might  find  her 
alone  !  and,  such  is  the  contradictory  nature  of  man's  feel- 


196  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

ings,  the  moment  he  stepped  into  the  studio  he  felt  he  would 
have  given  worlds  to  have  found  Mr.  Baker  still  there. 

The  ex-Princess  Daphne  was  lying  asleep  on  the  lounge 
in  an  attitude  of  the  most  delicious  lassitude.  She  was 
wrapped  in  one  of  her  softest  and  most  easy  neglige's,  her 
head  thrown  back  on  her  hands,  which  were  clasped  be- 
hind it.  She  did  not  wake  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug, 
his  back  to  the  empty  fireplace,  looking  at  her,  just  as  he 
had  stood  on  that  other  night  that  seemed  already  so  long, 
long  ago  ;  and  as  he  looked  at  her,  a  feeling  of  horrible, 
undefinable  dread  stealing  over  him,  he  went  back  in  his 
mind  over  all  the  short  past  he  had  trodden  with  her,  and 
which  had  seemed  so  exquisite  to  him.  Was  it  all  over — 
was  it  irrevocably  ended,  to-night?  A  voice  deep  within  his 
heart — so  deep  that  he  could  not  reach  it  to  stifle  it — told 
him  that  it  was  so  indeed ;  and  then  a  great,  profound  pity 
surged  up  in  his  mind,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He 
knelt  softly  by  the  sleeping  woman,  and,  bending  over  her, 
touched  her  lips  with  his.  Without  opening  her  eyes,  and 
with  a  little  sigh,  she  returned  his  kiss — ah !  so  sweetly, 
that  he  was  about  to  fling  his  arms  round  her,  when  she 
raised  the  lids  from  the  grand  brown  eyes  he  had  so  often 
closed  with  his  lips,  and,  seeing  him,  uttered  a  little  exclama- 
tion of  surprise,  in  which  he  detected  a  ring  of  mingled 
disappointment  and  alarm,  as,  turning  her  head  away  so  as 
to  avoid  him,  she  said  : 

"Oh!  it's  you/" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  strangled  gasp  of  pain  and 
rage,  and  stood  staring  down  at  her  as  she  slowly  turned 
her  head  and  looked  him  defiantly  in  the  eyes. 

Not  a  word  was  said  for  a  few  moments. 

****** 

It  was  Daphne  who  first  broke  the  silence  : 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  did  you  enjoy  your  dinner-party  ? " 

"  No." 

«  No  ?— Why  ?  " 

"  Because,  strange  though  it  may  appear   to  you,  I  would 


THE  REINCARNATION  OF  DAPHNE.  197 

sooner  have  killed  myself,  or  have  been  struck  blind  like 
poor  Gabriel  Hawleigh,  than  have  seen  that  man  enter 
your  house  this  evening." 

"  Ah !  you  spy  upon  me  ? — Well — I  presume  I  am  at 
liberty  to  ask  whomever  I  like  to  my  own  house  when  you 
are  away  amusing  yourself  elsewhere." 

"  Oh  !  of  course — My  God  ! — has  it  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,  mon  cher,  why  not  ?  Why  can't  you  live 
and  let  live." 

"  I  don't  live — this  is  worse  than  death  to  me.  Since 
when  has  that  man  been  coming  here  in  my  absence  ? " 

"  Since  you  have  made  it  a  recurring  practice  to  be  ab- 
sent— how  selfish  you  are !  He  has  my  interests  at  heart, 
and  comes  to  consult  with  me  on  my  American  affairs.  You 
know  he  is  in  some  way  interested  in  them  himself,  and 
you  surely  have  not  forgotten  that  it  is  through  him  that 
I  have  obtained,  or  shall  obtain,  the  fortune  Paul  du  Peyral 
cheated  me  out  of;" 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Eric,  bitterly,  "  on  the  means 
whereby  you  have  obtained  his  skilled  cooperation.  Good 
God,  Daphne,  how  changed  you  are  !  I  have  felt  it  ever  since 
your  illness — it  needed  but  this  to  convince  me.  I  could 
almost  believe  that  you  are  the  subject  of  a  marvellous  story 
that  was  told  us  to-night  by  the  American  doctor  who  arrived 
in  this  country  only  yesterday." 

"  Ah  !  a  story  ?     What  was  it  ?  " 

"I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  tell  stories." 

"  But  I  am  in  a  mood  to  hear  them.     Tell  me  this  one." 

"  He  told  us  of  a  man  whose  death-bed  he  attended  in 
New  York — a  man  who  was  the  incarnation  of  all  that  was 
unprincipled;  who  had  by  some  supernatural  means  pro- 
jected his  soul — his  vitality — into  some  woman  over  here, 
by  means  of  his  mistress,  over  whom  he  had  obtained  a 
marvellous  mesmeric  power.  I  could  almost  believe,  looking 
at  you  as  I  see  you  now,  that  you  are  the  woman." 

"  I  am." 


198  THE  PKINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Daphne !  do  you  want  to  drive  me 
mad?" 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  boy.  Your  American  doctor's  name 
was  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes — how  did  you  know  ? " 

"  Inductively,  through  Mr.  Baker.  The  man  over  there 
was  Paul  du  Peyral  ;  his  mistress  was  in  fact  his  wife, 
Mahmoure  du  Peyral,  nbe  di  Zulueta  ;  and  I  am  Miss  Daphne 
Preault  of  New  Orleans,  his.  blood  relation  and,  by  a  coinci- 
dence, apparently  his  double,  at  your  service." 

Eric  stood  looking  at  her  in  horrified  amazement  for  a 
few  moments  longer,  and  then,  without  a  word,  turned  and 
left  the  house.  Daphne  Prdault  rose  from  the  lounge  and 
spent  an  hour  with  her  thoughts  before  going  to  bed. 

The  whole  thing,  from  Eric's   entrance,  seemed  to  be   a 

twisted  version  of  that  other  night  in  the  preceding  autumn. 
****** 

On  the  following  morning  Eric  did  not  make  his  appear- 
ance as  was  his  wont.  The  hours  crept  by,  filled  for  Daphne 
with  idleness  ;  lunch-time  came,  and  still  no  Eric. 

"Well,"  thought  Daphne,  "he's  in  a  huff  about  something 
or  other.  Really,  that  man  becomes  wearisome — assommant. 
Heaven  defend  me  in  the  future  from  a  rich  man  who's 
grown  poor ! — they're  the  worst  kind  of  paupers,  because 
they're  so  impracticable.  Heigho !  I  hope  kind  fate  will 
send  me  some  visitors — I'm  bored  with  myself." 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  prayer  Clytie  entered  the  studio  at 
this  moment,  bearing  a  card.  With  a  feeling  of  genuine 
relief  Daphne  stretched  out  her  hand  to  take  it,  hoping  that 
it  was  a  man,  or  at  the  least  an  interesting  woman,  with  whom 
to  while  away  the  hours  of  afternoon  ;  she  did  not  feel  inclined 
to  go  out;  she  would  far  rather  sit  and  chat  lazily  at 
home. 

As  she  looked  at  the  card,  a  sudden  grip  of  pain  seemed 
to  seize  her,  and  a  flush  rose  to  her  brow  which  as  quickly 
gave  place  to  a  white,  hard,  stern  look  that  augured  ill  for 
the  reception  of  the  visitor. 


THE  REINCARNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  199 

The  name  on  the  card,  printed  in  tiny  block  letters,  was 
"  Madame  du  Peyral." 

We  have  none  of  us  heard  or  thought  much  of  anyone 
without  making  to  ourselves  a  strongly  defined  mental  picture 
of  their  personalities,  a  picture,  as  a  rule,  so  widely  differing 
from  the  truth  that  the  difference,  when  we  see  how  great 
it  is,  strikes  us  as  a  keen  disappointment,  if  not  as  an  insult 
to  our  intelligence.  Since  the  news  of  Paul's  marriage  to 
an  actress  had  reached  her,  Daphne  had  conjured  up  an 
unvarying  picture  of  Mahmoure.  She  expected  to  see  a 
rather  loud-looking  woman — tall,  voluptuously  formed,  with 
a  handsome,  bold,  foreign  face — a  face  to  suit  the  name, 
Mahmoure  di  Zulueta.  She  had  seen  the  type  in  all  its 
glory  at  Nice,  at  Monte  Carlo,  at  Ems,  at  Aix :  they  are 
usually  called  "  Mine,  la  Princesse  de  Quelquechose,"  and  are 
generally  to  be  seen  dashing  up  and  down  the  most  fre- 
quented allies,  in  wildly  luxurious  landaus  or  victorias, 
whose  panels  bear  highly  emblazoned  coats  of  arms,  and 
the  cockades  of  whose  coachmen's  hats  are  decorated  with 
little  scraps  of  divers-colored  ribbon.  They  are  also  usually 
attended  by  quiet,  dignified  men,  all  of  them  built  alike — 
that  is  to  say  :  complexion  ivory  white,  hair  and  moustache 
white  and  trimmed  en  brosse,  perfectly  dressed,  patent- 
leather  boots,  light  gloves,  tightly  buttoned  in  drab-coloured 
frock  coats,  white  hats,  canes  with  gold  heads,  the  air  of 
"  Diplomacy  "  stamped  indescribably  but  unmistakably  upon 
them,  the  whole  arrangement  identified  with  and  known  by 
some  noble  Russian  name.  The  type  pays  little  attention 
to  the  woman  by  its  side,  whom  one  catches  one's  self  wonder- 
ing vaguely  about — whether  it  be  his  wife,  sister,  or  chere 
amie. 

This  was  the  kind  of  woman  whom  Daphne  Pre'ault  pre- 
pared herself  to  snub,  as  a  gentle  frou-frou  of  skirts  heralded 
the  entrance  of  Mahmoure.  The  door  closed  and  the  two 
women,  animated  by  such  different  feelings,  faced  each 
other ;  but  instead  of  advancing,  by  a  singular  and  simul- 
taneous impulse  each  stopped  as  if  transfixed. 


200  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Perhaps  no  one  ever  belied  a  name  as  did  Mahmoure, 
dressed  to  go  into  the  world.  She  had  essentially  that  un- 
definable  pose  which  only  the  true  gentlewoman  can  pos- 
sess, whilst  so  many  gently-bred  women  lack  it  altogether. 
Always  dressed  in  an  absolutely  original  arrangement  of  the 
very  last  fashion,  she  would  have  been  remarked  anywhere, 
but  not,  as  is  usually  the  case,  in  consequence  of  her  gown 
per  se,  for  she  had  the  art  of  subduing  and  rendering  har- 
monious the  most  bizarre  "creation,"  and  for  "  form  "  would 
have  been  singled  out  from  any  crowd.  Where  this  little 
foreigner  got  her  manner  from  was  a  marvel  to  the  envious ; 
it  seemed  in  no  sense  acquired,  but  instinctive. 

Daphne's  hand  which  held  the  card  dropped  mechanically 
to  her  side,  and  the  pasteboard  fluttered  to  the  floor.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Mahmoure's  face  in  questioning  wonder 
— where  had  she  seen  this  stranger  before  ?  The  face 
seemed  perfectly  familiar,  yet  unknown  ;  and  it  was  attrac- 
tive to  her  with  an  attraction  beyond  the  power  of  words  to 
describe.  She  remembered  nothing  of  her  indignation  ;  the 
thoughts  of  resentment  she  had  felt  due  to  Mahmoure'  faded 
away.  She  felt  as  if  a  new  era  had  sprung  up  in  her  feel- 
ings since  the  moment  her  eyes  first  rested  on  the  small 
sable-clad  figure  that  stood  motronless  before  her,  the  pale 
face,  framed  in  its  burnished  bronze  hair,  standing  out 
weirdly  from  the  dark  surroundings. 

This  strange  sympathy  that  took  possession  of  Daphne 
was  the  more  absorbing  from  the  fact  that  it  was  quite  new 
to  her — for  she  was  not  given  to  what  is  called  "  gushing  " 
over  women.  Though  she  liked  them  very  well,  she  never 
made  nor  needed  "greatest  girl-friends."  The  affection 
which  seems  to  be  such  a  necessity,  such  an  all-absorbing 
lien,  between  some  women  had  always  been  a  matter  for 
wonder  to  her.  In  her  school  days,  when  some  girl  or  other 
had  sought  her  in  friendship,  and  had  drifted  into  adoration, 
as  girls  will  drift,  Daphne  had  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand why  she  should  be  expected  to  waste  her  time  in  pro- 
miscuous osculation.  She  would  submit  in  a  gracious  man- 


THE  REIXCARNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  2OI 

ner  to  being  kissed  ;  it  seemed  to  please  the  other  girl,  and 
didn't  hurt  her — but  why  ? — but  why  ? — she  would  question. 
After  she  had  grown  up,  and  after  she  had  begun  her  Bohe- 
mian life  among  "  the  boys,"  women  betrayed  a  tendency  to 
like,  to  admire,  and  to  adore  her — her  magnetism  seemed  to 
reach  them  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  Their  liking  may 
have  been  due  to  the  fact  that,  fascinatingly  beautiful  as 
she  was,  sensuously  and  a  trifle  masculinely  formed,  she 
had  admitted  no  man  before  Eric  to  her  close  friendship. 
However  it  was,  certain  it  is,  that  in  society  she  was  run 
after  by  all  the  women  whose  names  were  most  quoted  as 
associating  at  ultra-fashionable  functions ;  and  the  tributes 
to  her  talent  which  reached  her  in  the  form  of  letters  and 
bouquets,  each  year,  after  the  opening  of  the  Academy,  were 
almost  invariably  addressed  in  the  fashionable  female  hand, 
and  scented  an  point  de  delire.  She  sometimes  wondered  at 
it,  for  she  never  strove  for  their  patronage  or  friendship. 
At  last  she  accepted  it  unquestioningly,  thanking  her  fem- 
inine admirers  for  the  many  charming  afternoons  they  gave 
her,  and  passively  permitting  herself  to  be  loved,  as  is  al- 
ways the  role  of  one  principal  in  a  great  friendship. 

Therefore  was  she  the  more  amazed  to  find  herself  drawn 
irresistibly  to  this  little  woman,  whose  big  eyes  were  fixed  on 
her  with  a  strange,  far-off  look.  Her  prejudice  faded,  her 
fancied  anger  fled — all  were  merged  in  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  comfort  and^welcome  the  sad,  sweet-faced  woman 
before  her.  She  roused  herself  and  advanced  a  little, 
stretching  out  both  hands  so  as  to  take  Mahmoure  almost 
in  her  arms  as  she  said  : 

"  You  must  let  me  welcome  you  to  England,"  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  offered  her  lips  to  be  kissed  by  a  woman, 
impelled  by  a  fascination  which  was  stronger  than  herself, 
and  which  was  wholly  due  to  the  strange  magnetism  of  her 
visitor's  personality. 

And  Mahmoure,  who  had  remained  meanwhile  as  one  in 
a  dream  ?  ^  As  she  gazed,  an  almost  supernatural  look  flamed 
from  her  eyes — at  first  it  was  one  of  questioning,  then  by 


2O2  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

degrees  the  questioning  turned  to  recognition.  It  was  the 
woman  she  had  seen  at  Paul's  bedside  at  the  moment  of  his 
death  !  Her  eyes  became  moist,  and  lit  up  vividly ;  the 
pupils  dilated  till  the  colour  of  the  iris  seemed  blotted  out ;  a 
weird,  sullen  darkness  filled  them,  heavy  and  soft ;  and  then, 
as  Daphne's  lips  touched  hers,  a  flash  illumined  them  before 
they  closed,  as  she  leaned  upon  the  other  woman,  murmur- 
ing in  a  sigh  as  she  threw  back  her  head,  almost  unconsci- 
ous, "Paul!" 

Instantly  both  women  recovered  themselves.  Of  what 
inscrutable  influence  had  they  been  the  sport  ?  Both  were 
confused,  but  Mahmoure,  whose  momentary  aberration  was 
the  more  easily  understood  and  explained,  was  the  first  to 
regain  her  ordinary  equilibrium. 

"  This  is  a  strange  meeting,  Miss  Preault,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  fear  I  frighten  you  ;  pray  forgive  me.  I  don't  know  quite 
why  I  should  lose  my  head  on  meeting  you.  I  came  to  talk 
severely  business.  If  I  tried  to  explain  why  you  affect  me 
so  strangely,  you  would  laugh  at  me." 

"  Oh,  no !  Believe  me,  I  am  as  astonished  as  you — but 
somehow  I  seem  to  know  you,  madam." 

"  And  I,  you,"  replied  Mahmoure.  "  The  instant  I  saw 
you  all  recollection  of  time,  place,  and  circumstance  seemed 
to  leave  me.  I  seemed  to  be  in  a  dream,  for  I  saw  in  you 
the  man  whose  name  is  so  familiar  to  you,  and  who  was  so 
dear  to  me,  Paul  du  Peyral !  I  should  feel  bitterly  ashamed 
of  my  folly  were  I  not  sure  that  you  will  forgive  and  forget 
the  weakness  of  an  invalid." 

"  But  I  am  not  angry  at  all,"  returned  Daphne.  "  Come, 
let  us  sit  on  the  lounge  here,  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about 
yourself.  As  you  can  imagine,  I  have  been  anxious — not  to 
say  curious — to  see  you  in  the  flesh,  for — I  too  have  a  con- 
fession to  make  that  will  seem  foolish  and  hysterical  to  you. 
I  seem  to  have  seen  you  before — in  a  dream,  or  somehow — 
so  we  are  not  strangers — what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  explain  it,  Miss  Pre'ault — " 

"Call   me    Daphne — won't   you — Mahmoure?     Yours   is 


THE  REINCARNA  TION  OF  DAPHNE.  203 

such  a  beautiful  name  that  I  should  love  to  call  you  by  it  in 
exchange." 

"  Please,  do.  Well,  to  continue  :  I  think  the  sympathy 
between  us  rests  on  our  having  both  been  influenced  by  the 
same  man — who  resembled  you  as  if  he  were  your  twin — 
and  who  was  my  husband.  It  is  of  that  I  came  to  speak  to 
you — I  have  wronged  you  deeply — can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive  ;  we  shall  be  great  friends, 
I  know." 

"Ah!  how  good  you  are  !"  exclaimed  Mahmoure' ;  and 
she  kissed  the  hand  that  Daphne  extended  to  her. 

They  were  seated  close  together  on  the  lounge,  and 
though  an  ordinary  observer  would  not  have  seen  anything 
strange  in  the  appearance  of  the  two  women,  one  of  them 
at  least  had  by  no  means  recovered  her  self-possession.  It 
was  Daphne  who  could  not  reconcile  her  own  conflicting 
sensations — she  could  find  no  reason  for  the  intense,  soft 
satisfaction  that  she  felt  under  the  influence  of  Mahmoure's 
presence,  of  her  touch,  of  her  gaze,  of  her  kiss. 

It  seemed  like  a  new  obsession,  and  it  troubled  her  ;  but 
at  last  she  explained  it  to  her  own  dissatisfaction  as  being 
natural  magnetism — or  madness.  But  she  thought  that  if 
Mahmoure  was  mad,  she  was  a  singularly  interesting 
maniac;  and  as  the  low,  tender  voice  spoke  on,  the  desire  to 
befriend  her  and  to  love  her  grew  stronger  and  stronger, 
till  at  last  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  moment,  and  she  and 
Mahmoure  plunged,  confidentially,  into  stories  of  their  past 
lives,  of  the  events  that  had  established  such  a  sympathy 
between  them,  and  had  finally  brought  them  together. 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close  with  tea  and  chatter. 
Daphne  had  denied  herself  to  every  visitor,  and  the  two 
women,  completely  at  their  ease,  sat,  or  rather  lounged  on 
the  divan,  exchanging  confidences  as  the  hours  sped  by. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Daphne,  as  if  concluding  an 
arrangement ;  "  that  is  settled ;  so  long  as  you  are  in  Eng- 
land you  must  spend  much  of  your  time  here  with  me.  The 
questions  of  business  that  exist  between  us  can  be  disposed 


2O4  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

of  in  a  morning,  and  we  must  see  all  that  we  can  of  one 
another  whilst  we  can.  You  cannot  think  how  strangely 
happy  I  am  that  chance  should  have  thrown  us  together 
like  this.  Our  friendship,  though  sudden,  must  be  lasting ; 
promise  me,  Mahmoure,  that  it  shall  be." 

And  Mahmoure,  lying  among  the  cushions,  looked  up 
into  Daphne's  beautiful  eyes  and  said  : 

"  I  promise  you  !  " 

For  answer  Daphne  bent  and  kissed  the  beautiful  lips 
that  had  framed  the  words,  as  if  to  thank  them.  A  sudden 
noise  made  her  raise  her  head  suddenly,  and  Mahmoure 
also  started  up  into  a  less  "easy  "  position. 

Eric  Trevanion  stood  before  them. 

Daphne  blushed  scarlet,  for  no  earthly  reason  that  she 
could  give  herself,  as  she  rose,  and,  going  to  the  tea-table, 
said  : 

"  Madame  du  Peyral,  this  is  my  great  friend  and  ally, 
Mr.  Eric  Trevanion.  Eric,  this  is  Mme.  Paul  du  Peyral." 

Eric  bowed  profoundly  and  raised  his  eyes  to  Mahmourd's, 
What  was  the  intense  feeling  of  antipathy  that  surged  over 
him  as  he  met  her  steady  gaze  ?  He  could  not  tell.  But  he 
grew  pale  as  he  took  his  tea-cup  from  Daphne,  and  he  felt 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  character  of  this  beautiful  little 
Oriental  woman,  she  was  an  enemy  to  him,  a  barrier  to  be, 
between  himself  and  Daphne. 

He  could  not  reason  it  out,  but  as  he  put  Mahmoure'  into 
her  hansom  when  she  took  her  departure,  and  she  leant 
upon  his  hand  in  getting  in,  the  same  electric  thrill  of  in- 
tense antagonism  shot  through  him,  and  he  turned  back 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    AUTOCRAT    OF    TRTHWWSTHPLLGG. 

ON  the  few  occasions  when  I  have  time  to  think  at  all,  I 
have  often  thought  it  strange  that  so  few  Englishmen  know 
anything  of  one  of  the  most  glorious  districts  of  their  native 
land,  save  from  the  pages  of  "  Lorna  Doone  "  and  the  writ- 
ings of  Baring-Gould.  The  Amateur  Pedestrian  is  a  strongly 
English  institution,  but  the  proportion  of  pedestrians  who 
explore  the  beauties  of  Dartmoor  is  ridicuously  small  by 
comparison  with  the  army  of  knapsack-fiends  who  yearly 
invade  the  lake  district  of  Cumberland,  the  Peak  scenery  of 
Derbyshire,  and  Scotland  generally.  I  am  not  going  to 
challenge  comparison  with  Blackmore  in  a  description  of 
Dartmoor.  Had  Gabriel  Hawleigh  been  able  to  see  the 
beauties  that  were  bathed  in  the  exquisite  heather-scented 
atmosphere  that  day  by  day  brought  back  the  colour  to  his 
wan  cheeks,  he  would  have  made  many  a  study  of  landscape 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  little  cottage  in  which  the 
Hawleigh  household  found  itself  installed  just  beyond  the 
borders  of  Cornwall.  But  Gabriel  was  blind,  and  it  was  in 
vain  that  Mrs.  Hawleigh  endeavoured  to  discover  any  sign 
that  the  veil  that  hid  the  life  around  him  from  his  eyes 
showed  any  tendency  to  lift,  and  give  back  to  her  son  the 
glorious  gift  of  sight. 

The  cottage  that  they  had  found  was  little  short  of  an 
artist's  paradise.  A  little  house  of  one  story,  shut  out  from 
the  lonely  moor-road  by  a  privet  hedge,  and  sheltered  from 
the  winds  by  high  elms  and  poplars,  which  bowed  their 
heads  in  sage  appreciation  of  the  secrets  whispered  to  one 
another  by  their  intermingling  branches,  when  the  moor 
winds  woke  them  to  murmur. 

205 


206  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Their  lives  were  as  quiet  and  uneventful  as  lives  can  be. 
Maye  and  Gabriel  made  music  together  a  good  deal.  Fort- 
unately, Gabriel,  virtuoso  as  he  had  laughingly  declared  him- 
self to  be,  had  the  faculty  of  playing  by  ear,  and  from  mem- 
ory, highly  developed.  Now  that  the  faculty  had  become  a 
necessity,  it  had  increased  wonderfully,  and  they  spent  long, 
happy  mornings  together,  lost  in  the  clouds  of  harmony  with 
which  they  rilled  the  little  cottage,  playing  over  all  Gabriel's 
old  repertoire,  learning  new  masterpieces,  which  Maye  would 
play  on  the  piano  for  Gabriel  to  pick  up  on  the  violin,  and 
yet  more  often  breaking  into  the  wild,  passionate  improvisa- 
tions that  had  been  the  delight  of  the  favoured  few  in  the 
Holland  Street  colony  who  had  been  permitted  to  hear  them. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  two  would  go  out  for  walks  on  the 
moor,  arm-in-arm,  chattering  gayly  over  the  points  of  land- 
scape which  Maye  described,  as  minutely  as  she  could,  to 
her  poor  blind  boy.  And  when,  as  sometimes  happened, 
Gabriel  had  a  return  of  his  old  listlessness  and  disappoint- 
ment, and  wanted  to  be  left  alone  with  his  mother  or  with 
his  thoughts,  Maye  would  wander  forth  alone,  and  explore 
the  country  for  new  spots  to  which  she  might  lead  Gabriel 
when  next  they  took  the  air  together.  It  was  on  one  of 
these  solitary  excursions  that  she  made  an  accidental  dis- 
covery that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  my  story. 

She  had  been  practising  with  Gabriel  all  the  morning,  and 
in  the  afternoon  he  had  felt  tired,  and  had  gone  to  his  room 
instead  of  taking  his  customary  stroll  on  the  moor,  and 
Maye,  feeling  hipped  and  cramped  in  the  little  house,  had 
shod  herself  with  the  uncompromising  boots  which  she 
reserved  for  such  excursions,  had  armed  herself  with  the 
ground-ash  sapling  that  was  her  constant  escort  in  her  coun- 
try walks,  and  had  started  out  alone,  along  a  new  road, 
which  led  she  knew  not  whither. 

As  she  walked,  the  girl's  mind  was  busy  revolving  the 
changes  that  had  come  into  her  life,  analyzing  her  feelings 
with  a  calm  introspection  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
Princess  Daphne  herself.  She  loved  Gabriel  Hawleigh  with 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG.          2O/ 

all  her  soul — but  did  she  yield  her  heart  to  him  ?  Though 
she  was  as  steadfast  as  ever  in  her  purpose  to  marry  him  and 
strive  to  make  his  life  lighter  for  him  in  his  blindness,  yet  a 
vague  questioning  mood  would  sometimes  come  over  her, 
which  frightened  her,  though  she  took  it  in  hand,  and  never 
let  it  interfere  with  her  course  along  the  path  of  what  she 
considered  to  be  her  duty.  Were  I  writing  a  romance — 
telling  of  things  that  never  happened — I  should  have  caused 
my  ideal  maiden,  Maye  Trevethick,  to  love  her  betrothed 
husband  all  the  more  wildly,  all  the  more  devotedly,  for  his 
blindness,  but  I  am  speaking  of  a  real,  living  woman — a 
good,  pure,  English  maid,  with  all  the  real  feelings  of  her  age 
and  sex  strong  in  her  healthy  young  soul.  Maye  was  not  a 
girl  to  idealize,  or  to  hide  her  feelings  from  herself.  She  was 
nineteen,  and  full  of  life  and  of  wonder  at  the  world  ;  she  had 
all  the  curiosity,  the  enthusiasm,  of  her  age  ;  and  she  had  be- 
stowed her  fair  young  self,  a  tribute  of  gratitude,  upon  the 
boy  whose  life  she  was,  whose  light  she  was  to  be  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  whose  mother  had  been  a  mother  to  her, 
and  to  whom  she  was  bound  by  every  tie  of  recognition. 
Yes  !  My  ideal  maiden  should  have  loved  the  boy  the  more 
dearly,  the  more  devotedly,  for  his  affliction ;  but  Maye, 
though  strong  in  her  single-hearted  purpose  to  marry  Gabriel 
whenever  he  should  wish  it,  realized  that  her  life  was  doomed 
to  be  blotted  out,  to  be  devoted  to  the  care  of  an  invalid 
whose  only  knowledge  of  her  fresh  young  beauty  must  be  the 
memory  of  the  face  he  had  so  often  fixed  upon  his  canvas — 
the  face  that  went  laughing  by  in  the  darkness,  in  his  picture 
"Sunshine  in  the  Fog,  "  whilst  the  blind  man  made  music  for 
her  laughter  that  it  joyed  him  to  hear,  but  whose  smile  he 
would  never  see. 

"  Oh  !  Gabriel — Gabriel  !  "  she  cried  out  sometimes  in  her 
great  loneliness ;  "  if  only  I  could  give  you  my  eyes,  and 
my  life  with  them,  my  poor  blind  love  !  You  will  never  see 
me  again — and  after  we  are  married  it  will  be  the  same — 
darkness — darkness — always — always.  Oh.  God  !  I  am  a 
wretch  to  feel  it  like  this,  to  think  of  it  even  for  an  instant ;  but 


2O8  THE  PKIXCESS  DAPHNE. 

the  thought  is  sometimes  terrible — terrible.  If  only  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  his  faithful  love,  his  strong,  true- 
hearted  devotion  to  me  before  he  became  a  great  man — and 
blind ;  but  I  can't — I  can't.  What  use  is  it  that  I  am 
young, and  that  people  tell  me  that  I  am  fair? — he  can  never 
see  me  now.  What  use  will  it  be  to  make  our  home  beauti- 
ful around  him  ?  Oh  !  why  has  my  love  changed  so  ?  I  do 
not  love  him  less — ah,  no  ! — not  less ;  but  the  love  is  not  the 
same.  Would  that  I  could  be  his  servant  instead  of  his 
wife  ? — but  that  cannot  be.  Even  when  we  were  in  town 
Eric  Trevanion  was  more  useful  to  him  than  I ;  and  now  he 
constantly  wishes  that  Eric  was  here  with  us.  Pray  God  he 
may  not  come — but  no,  he  cannot — he  has  only  one  thought, 
and  that  thought — Daphne  !  Ah  !  why  do  I  not  hate  her  ? — 
but  I  can't — she  loves  Eric  so  dearly — and  I  ?  — well,  well,  I 
felt  like  a  fiend  before  I  left  London,  when  I  wished  that  / 
were  blind  that  he  might  lead  me  about  and  read  for  me,  as 
he  did  for  Gabriel.  Oh,  Gabriel,  Gabriel,  why  is  my  love 
for  you  changing  ? — for  I  can  feel  it  changing,  here  at  my 
heart;  and  the  thought  is  killing  me." 

And,  wondering  thus,  she  walked  along  the  Cornish 
roads,  buried  in  thought,  and  not  noticing  whither  her  wan- 
dering feet  were  leading  her.  She  was  roused  suddenly 
from  her  reverie  to  see  the  sun  slanting  to  the  west,  and 
knew  that  it  was  time  she  returned  home.  Returned  home  ! 
Yes,  certainly ;  but  where  was  she  ?  She  appeared  to  have 
reached  the  borders  of  the  moor,  and  not  a  human  habita- 
tion was  in  sight,  not  a  human  being  of  whom  she  could  ask 
her  way. 

After  considering  the  matter  profoundly  for  a  while,  at  a 
place  where  three  roads  met,  she  decided  at  last  to  follow 
one  of  them,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  someone  who  could  put 
her  right,  and  started  off,  feeling  a  little  bit  frightened,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  a  little  bit  tired.  But  she  dared  not  acknowl- 
edge this  to  herself,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  a  long  way 
to  walk  home,  even  after  she  got  the  direction,  and  that  she 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG.         209 

must  not  increase  her  worry  by  the  confession,  even  to  her- 
self, that  she  was  weary. 

She  had  walked  along  the  road  she  had  chosen  for  up- 
wards of  a  mile  without  seeing  any  sign  of  human  occupa- 
tion of  the  county,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  a  singular  ten- 
dency to  cry — for  Maye  was  only  a  woman,  after  all — when, 
the  road  taking  a  sudden  turn,  she  found  herself  confronted 
by  a  high  gate  leading  apparently  into  a  park.  There  was 
no  lodge,  but  the  private  road  inside  the  gate  showed  such 
signs  of  cultivation  that  she  concluded  that  it  must  lead  to  a 
house,  and  so,  mustering  all  her  courage,  she  opened  the 
gate,  which  was  fortunately  not  locked,  and  went  in. 

Where  was  that  house  ?  The  drive,  for  drive  it  appeared 
to  be,  seemed  interminable.  Tired  as  she  was,  it  seemed  as 
if  she  had  walked  for  hours  between  the  high  and  carefully 
trimmed  hedges  of  rhododendron  and  laurestinus,  and  she 
was  just  preparing  to  give  up  in  despair  and  retrace  her 
footsteps,  when  suddenly  the  hedges  stopped,  opened,  and 
the  road  dipped.  I  say  dipped,  because  she  found  herself 
standing  on  the  summit  of  a  steep  declivity,  where  the  road 
suddenly  plunged  into  a  great  hollow,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  lay  what  seemed  to  Maye  to  be  the  most  beautiful  old 
house  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  The  precipitation  of 
the  incline  was  modified  for  wayfarers  by  the  road  curving 
round  it  to  reach  the  bottom  by  an  easier  slope ;  and  it 
stopped  at  a  moat,  a  veritable  moat,  the  mediaeval  appear- 
ance of  which  was  only  modernized  by  its  being  crossed  by 
a  comparatively  new  stone  bridge,  which  seemed  to  be  care- 
fully gravelled. 

On  the  moat  itself  a  few  swans  and  innumerable  ducks 
sailed  hither  and  thither,  leaving  broad  fan-like  wakes 
behind  them  on  the  mirror-smooth  surface  of  the  water ; 
and,  apparently  surrounded  by  the  moat  and  standing  in  a 
sweet,  soft  lawn  that  resembled  green  plush  as  she  looked 
down  upon  it,  there  rose  a  lovely  old  house,  built  half  of 
gray  stone  and  half  of  grand  old  ruddy  brick,  with  here  and 
there  an  excrescence  in  the  form  of  a  win  of  a  more  modern 


2IO  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHA'E. 

style  of  architecture.  The  whole  seemed  softened  and  ten- 
der, as  if  its  angles  had  been  rounded  off  by  the  gentle, 
continuous  kiss  of  Time,  which  had  spread  over  the  crevices 
of  the  masonry  an  embroidery  of  soft  lichens,  with  here  and 
there  a  tuft  of  saxifrage  or  a  golden  ball  of  stone-crop. 
Into  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  summer  afternoon  a  perpen- 
dicular column  of  blue  smoke  rose  here  and  there  from  the 
clustered  chimney-stacks,  and  gave  a  touch  of  life  to  this 
old-time  manor-house ;  and  as  she  stood  stricken  motionless 
by  the  beauty  of  the  place,  she  espied  a  gardener  driving  a 
mowing-machine  over  a  far  angle  of  the  inner  lawn.  A  gen- 
tle whirr  rose  into  the  air  from  the  machine,  and  then  she 
saw,  dotted  here  and  there  on  the  slopes  that  surrounded 
the  house,  lying  lazily  under  the  oaks  and  elms  that  pro- 
tected this  elysium  from  the  winds  of  the  moor,  a  few  great 
black  oxen,  which  gave  no  sign  of  life  save  an  occasional 
sway  of  the  head  as  they  reached  for  some  hitherto  unno- 
ticed tuft  of  clover. 

A  feeling  of  intense  repose  stole*  over  her  weary  senses  as 
she  prepared  to  descend  into  the  hollow  and  ask  the  man 
who  was  mowing,  where  she  was,  when  suddenly  her  purpose 
was  checked  by  the  sound  of  wheels  behind  her.  Whatever 
it  was  that  approached,  humanity,  in  some  form  or  other, 
must  accompany  it,  so  she  waited  until  the  vehicle  should 
reach  the  spot  where  she  stood  as  if  enchanted.  The 
sound  of  the  wheels  drew  nearer,  and  at  last  a  dog-cart 
turned  the  corner,  driven  by  a  man.  Maye's  first  feminine 
spasm  of  apprehension  was  banished  as,  on  a  second  inspec- 
tion, the  man  appeared  to  possess  the  requisite  number  of 
years  to  allay  her  sexual  alarm.  It  was  an  old  man,  and  the 
dog-cart  perceptibly  slackened  its  speed  as  its  occupant 
caught  sight  of  the  girl  standing  there,  looking  at  him. 

As  he  saw  that  she  was  about  to  speak,  the  driver  stopped 
his  horse,  and  the  trim  servant  who  clung  to  the  back  seat 
jumped  down  and  posted  himself,  tigerwise,  at  the  animal's 
head,  as  the  old  gentleman,  with  an  awkward  movement, 
jerked  off  his  hat  and  threw  it  on  again. 


THE  AUTOCRA T  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG.         2 1  I 

"  I  have  lost  my  way,"  began  Miss  Trevethick,  quailing  a 
little  under  his  questioning  look,  "  and  I  came  up  this  drive 
hoping  to  find  someone  who  could  direct  me.  Can  you  tell 
me  how  to  get  back  to  the  village  of  Arthisham-by-Dart- 


inoor 


"  Anhisham-by-Dartmoor  !  Do  you  wish  to  walk  back 
there  this  evening,  young  lady  ? "  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  Yes — if  you  please — is  it  far  ? " 

"  It's  nine  miles." 

"  Nine  miles  ! — oh  dear !  what  shall  I  do  ? — they  will  be 
so  anxious  about  me." 

"They?" 

"  My  aunt  and  my  cousin.  I  live  with  them  about  a  mile 
beyond  Arthisham.  I  came  out  for  a  walk,  and  missed  the 
road  home — oh !  how  can  I  get  back  ? — will  you  please 
direct  me  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  young  lady,  it  will  "be  nearly  dark  before 
you  get  back  ;  you  will  miss  the  road  again.  Dear,  dear, 
dear — what  an  unfortunate  occurrence  !  " 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  poor  Maye,  striving  hard  not  to  burst 
into  tears,  "  that  if  you  could  send  a  servant  a  little  way 
with  me,  to  see  me  on  the  right  road,  I  can  find  my  way 
back.  I  am  accustomed  to  going  about  alone." 

"  But  you  should  have  brought  your  cousin  with  you  ; 
pardon  me,  has  it  not  been  a  little  imprudent  of  you  ? " 

"  My  cousin  is  blind." 

"  Oh  ! — Forgive  me,  pray ;  "  and  the  old  gentleman's  face 
was  crossed  by  a  look  of  perplexity  as  he  glanced  from  the 
young  girl,  looking  so  pretty  and  so  piteous  before  him,  to 
his  steaming  horse. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  young  lady ;  I  hardly  know  what  to  say 
to  you  ;  but  if  you  will  jump  up  here,  we  will  go  down  to  the 
house,  and  whilst  my  man  harnesses  another  horse  to  a 
phaeton,  my  housekeeper  will  give  you  some  tea — you  must 
want  it — and  then  my  man  here  will  drive  you  home.  No,  I 
will  take  no  excuse  ;  I  haven't  any  daughter  of  my  own,  but 


212  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

I  should  be  very  sorry,  if  I  had  one,  to  let  her  walk  twenty 
miles." 

And  so  Maye  got  up,  her  weariness  almost  dazing  her,  a 
feeling  of  infinite  comfort  and  safety  stealing  over  her  as 
she  took  her  place  at  the  old  gentleman's  side,  and  reached 
the  front  door  of  the  old  house  across  the  moat. 

"  What  a  lovely  old  place — "  she  began,  but  her  admira- 
tion was  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  an  eminently 
respectable  housekeeper,  who,  after  giving  her  a  searching 
glance  of  strong  disapproval,  took  her  in  charge  and  carried 
her  off,  after  a  few  words  of  explanation  from  her  master, 
to  perform  the  mysterious  rites  of  the  brush  and  comb. 

When  she  came  down  again  to  the  great  hall,  whose  pol- 
ished floor  was  strewn  with  fine  old  English  rugs,  her  unex- 
pected host  was  ready  to  do,  bachelorwise,  the  honours  of 
the  tea-table,  and  whilst  she  chatted  with  him  about  her 
adventures  of  the  afternoon  and  the  old-time  pleasance  in 
which  she  found  herself  by  such  a  lucky  chance,  she  was 
almost  sorry  when  a  most  modern  and  comfortable  phaeton 
drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  pair  of  strawberry  roans  pawed 
the  gravel  as  if  impatient  to  carry  her  away  from  this  Eve- 
less  paradise. 

Maye  rose,  and  thanking  her  host,  prepared  to  go. 

"  If  you  will  not  be  bored  by  an  old  man's  company,  my 
dear,  will  you  let  me  drive  you  home?  I  shall  be  able  to 
reassure  your  aunt — er  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Hawleigh." 

"  Exactly — your  aunt,  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  on  the  subject  of 
your  long  absence.  She  must  indeed  be  uneasy  about  you." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  "  said  Maye,  a  feeling 
coming  over  her  that  she  liked  this  gruffly  courteous  old 
Cornishman  very  much  indeed. 

And  so  they  got  into  the  phaeton,  and  her  elderly  Galahad 
took  the  reins. 

"I  am  quite  gratified  at  the  accident  that  has  procured 
for  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  Miss  Hawleigh,  " 
said  he,  as  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hollow  and  began 


THE  A  UTOCRA  T  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG.         2 1 3 

rolling  swiftly  down  the  drive  she  had  walked  up  with  such 
very  different  feelings  half  an  hour  before. 

"  My  name  is  not  Hawleigh,  "  corrected  she  ;  "  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  is  my  aunt.  My  name  is  Trevethick,  Maye  Treve- 
thick." 

"  Trevethick  !  why,  that's  a  Cornish  name,  "  replied  her 
escort. 

"  Yes — my  father  was  a  Cornishman." 

"  Was  a  Cornishman  ? " 

"  Yes — my  father  died  in  India  five  years  ago." 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! — you  are  not  going  to  tell  me  that 
you  are  the  daughter  of  Claude  Trevethick,  of  the  Indian 
Civil  Service." 

"  Yes — did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Know  him  !  Why,  yes,  very  well — and  his  wife  too — 
she—?" 

"  I  am  an  orphan." 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear !  poor  child !  But  I'm  right  glad  to 
have  met  you,  my  dear,  and  am  more  than  ever  thankful  that 
you  lost  your  way  this  afternoon.  Dear,  dear,  dear !  I  won- 
der if  you  ever  heard  your  father  speak  of  Eric  Trevanion  of 

Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor  ?  " 

******* 

Eric  Trevanion !  Eric  Trevanion !  She  was  driving 
home  with  Eric's  father — "  the  Autocrat  of  Trthwwsthpllgg 
Manor,  "  as  she  had  so  often  heard  Eric  laughingly  call  him. 

Her  feelings  at  the  strangeness  of  the  situation — the 
varied  emotions  that  it  roused  in  her  soul,  combined  with 
the  weariness  that  was  beginning  to  take  effect  on  her  poor, 
tired  little  body — caused  her  almost  a  feeling  of  faintness, 
and  she  sank  into  a  reverie  which  Mr.  Trevanion,  taking  it 
for  natural  exhaustion,  forebore  to  disturb  with  any  attempt 
at  protracted  conversation.  So  they  drove  along  almost  in 
silence — the  old  gentleman  periodically  ejaculating  : 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear !  what  a  little  world  it  is  ! — just  think  of 
it  ! — how  strange  ! — who  would  have  dreamt  of  it  ?  Egad  \ 


THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 


it's  like  a  novel.  So  you  are  Claude's  child  ?  —  dear,  dear, 
dear  !  " 

And  so  they  reached  the  cottage,  where  they  found  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  and  Gabriel  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  which 
changed  into  a  chorus  of  gratitude  and  satisfaction  as  Maye 
disappeared,  thanking  "  her  preserver  "  once  more  for  his 
charity  to  her. 

Mr.  Trevanion  remained  but  a  few  minutes,  but  before  he 
left  he  had  heard  the  latest  news  of  his  son,  whom  he  was 
astounded  to  find  was  a  friend  of  the  family  ;  and  he  took 
his  departure,  promising  to  return  next  day  to  inquire  after 
the  maiden  whom  he  had  rescued  so  fortunately,  and  in 
whom  he  expressed  an  interest  that  was  more  than  paternal. 

On  the  following  day,  true  to  his  promise,  and  on  many 
days  following,  Mr.  Trevanion  came  over  to  see  the  Haw- 
leighs  and  Maye,  till  at  last  Gabriel  laughingly  declared  that 
he  was  getting  quite  jealous  of  Eric  Trevanion,  senior,  and 
should  send  for  Eric  Trevanion,  junior,  to  keep  his  father  in 
order.  It  was  a  hard  trial  sometimes  for  Maye  when  old 
Trevanion  would  pour  forth  his  solitary  woes  to  Mrs.  Haw- 
leigh, in  the  little  cottage  parlour,  on  the  text  of  his  son's 
absence. 

"  He  has  a  comfortable  home  waiting  for  him  here,  my 
dear  madam  ;  why  doesn't  he  return  to  it  ?  Starving  !  I've  no 
doubt  he  is  ;  he  was  never  made  to  get  his  own  living,  and 
never  will.  I  don't  ask  much  of  him  —  only  that  he  should 
come  down  here  and  live  with  me,  part  of  the  year,  at  any 
rate  ;  and  then,  it's  high  time  he  married  —  we  Trevanions 
have  always  married  young,  and  never  out  of  the  county. 
I  don't  know  who  that  Miss  Preault  is,  that  he  seems  to  be 
so  fond  of,  but  I  wont  have  my  boy  marrying  an  American 
adventuress." 

"  Miss  Preault  is  hardly  an  adventuress,  "  mildly  expos- 
tulated Mrs.  Hawleigh.  "  She  conies  of  a  very  fine  old 
American  family  of  the  South  —  she  is  certainly  very  beauti- 
ful, and  very  fond  of  Eric,  "  concluded  she,  guardedly. 

"  That  is  all  very  well  —  that  is  as  it  may  be,  of  course  — 


THE  AUTOCKA  T  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG.  2  I  5 

but  a  Trevanion  must  marry  a  Cornish  girl.  Trthwwsthpllgg 
Manor  has  never  been  shared  by  a  foreigner,  and,  please 
God,  it  never  will.  Tell  me — did  my  son  know  your  niece 
before  she  became  betrothed  to  your  son  ?  " 

"  Oh !  yes,  Mr.  Trevanion.  We  have  known  Eric  ever 
since  he  came  to  London." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? — is  it  possible  ?  " 

Maye  rose  and  joined  Gabriel  on  the  veranda,  where  he 
loved  to  sit  for  hours  at  a  time,  listening,  he  said,  to  the 
world-sounds,  differentiating,  with  all  the  super-sensitive 
keenness  of  a  blind  man's  ear,  between  the  innumerable 
murmurs  that  filled  the  quiet  summer  air. 

Left  alone  with  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  Mr.  Trevanion  returned 
to  the  charge. 

"  Tell  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hawleigh, "  said  he ;  "  what 
truth  is  there  in  the  stories  they  tell  of  my  boy  and  this  Miss 
Daphne  Preault  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  infatuation 
of  his  ? " 

"Really,  Mr.  Trevanion,  "  was  the  still  guarded  answer, 
"  I  cannot  tell  you  more  than  you  already  know.  They  are 
great  friends  and  constant  companions,  and  Eric  seems  very 
anxious  to  marry  her." 

"  Good  heavens  !  when  he  might  have  married  your  niece  ! 
I  tell  you,  my  dear  madam — " 

"  Hush  !  "exclaimed  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  in  an  undertone  ; 
"  Gabriel  will  hear  you  ;  his  ears  catch  almost  every  sound 
now;  it  is  his  keenest  sense." 

"Well,  well!"  returned  Eric's  father,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  it's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk  in  that  direction,  and  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  see  my  boy  rob  another  man  of  his 
sweetheart ;  but  I  confess  to  you  that  I'm  very  uneasy  and 
anxious  about  Eric.  We  are  not  children,  my  dear  madam  ; 
my  boy  says  nothing  about  marriage  with  this  woman,  and 
there  is  only  one  interpretation  to  be  put  upon  it.  I  know 
he  must  be  very  poor,  and  sometimes  I  have  a  horrible 
dread  that  he  is  indebted  to  her  for  material  assistance.  Will 
you  not  help  me  ?  I'm  hasty  and  bad-tempered — a  little 


2l6  THE  PROCESS  DAPHNE. 

too  authoritative  with  him,  perhaps ;  can  you  not  soften  my 
methods  by  supplementing  them  with  yours  ? — can  you  not 
help  me  to  get  him  down  here  ? " 

"  I  will  try,  Mr.  Trevanion." 

"And  then  I  want  you  all  to  come  over  and  live  at 
Trthwwsthpllgg  until  your  son's  sight  is  restored,  or  suffi- 
ciently so  to  enable  him  to  return  home.  You  are  cramped 
and  lonely  here  ;  at  Trthwwsthpllgg  there  are  distractions  of 
all  kinds,  even  for  a  blind  man.  Ah  !  do  not  say  no,  my 
dear  madam  ;  it  is  an  old  fellow's  whim,  and  it  is  for  my 
son's  sake  that  I  ask  it  of  you." 

So  Trevanion  pere  wrote  another  and  more  urgent  prayer 
to  his  son,  to  leave  his  modern  Circe,  or  Helen,  or  what- 
ever she  was  to  him ;  and  Mrs.  Hawleigh  wrote  him  a  long 
letter  full  of  entreaties  from  Gabriel,  who  longed  to  have  him 
come  and  read  to  him,  and  talk  to  him  as  he  had  done  in 
the  last  days  in  Holland  Street.  But  Eric  was  enthralled 
by  his  own  morbid  sensitiveness,  and  had  not  the  moral 
courage  to  break  the  chain  that  was  beginning  to  gall  him 
so  fearfully. 

His  honour,  rooted  in  dishonour  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true  !  " 

Well,  well,  he  was  not  so  very  much  to  blame — he  was 
only  a  man,  after  all,  and  I  never  knew  a  man  who  was 
morally  as  strong  as  the  weakest  woman  I  ever  met. 
This  is  a  fact  which  has  been  remarked  by  far  pro- 
founder  observers  than  I,  and  the  explanation  has  yet  to 
be  found  for  it.  I  suppose  that  it  is  the  compensation  that 
is  given  to  woman  for  her  physical  inferiorities  and  infirm- 
ities ;  perhaps  it  is  in  consequence  of  this  physical  inferi- 
ority that  she  is  always  more  or  less  on  the  defensive,  and 
has  realized  the  advantages  of  delay  and  patience.  At  any 
rate  the  man  has  yet  to  be  born  who  can  scheme  towards 
an  end,  can  wait  behind  his  defences,  can  act  with  the  piti- 
less directness,  and  if  necessary  bear  the  mental  and 
physical  agony  that  every  woman  can  bear — not  in  conse- 


THE  AUTOCRA  T  OF  TRTHWWSTHPLLGG          2  I  7 

quenceof  her  education  or  determination,  but  simply  because 
she  is  a  woman  !  Woman  always  acts  on  her  convictions, 
unless  she  is  in  love  ;  and  she  is  nearly  always  right  to  do  so. 
This  is  doubtless  why  women  always  ask  for  a  reason,  and 
never  listen  to  one.  This  is,  however,  by  the  way ;  let  us 
return  to  our  story. 

One  of  Mr.  Trevanion's  greatest  delights  was  to  come  or 
send  over  for  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  Gabriel,  and  Maye,  and  keep 
them  at  Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor  all  day,  sending  them  back 
the  last  thing  at  night ;  and  Gabriel  seemed  to  revel  in  the 
quiet  that  filled  the  hollow  round  the  old  manor-house.  His 
host  had  fitted  up,  for  the  special  purpose  of  receiving  the 
family,  a  boudoir  that  had  belonged  to  Mrs  Trevanion, — who 
had  died  when  Eric  was  quite  a  child, — a  little  room  situ- 
ated in  an  angle  of  the  house,  with  a  conservatory  leading 
out  of  it ;  and  in  this  conservatory  he  had  arranged  a  lounge 
shrouded  by  ferns  and  high  plants,  where  Gabriel  could  lie 
when  he  felt  weary,  revelling  in  the  moist,  soft  perfume 
which  filled  the  place.  There  he  would  remain  for  hours, 
as  he  did  on  the  verandah  at  the  cottage,  whilst  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  and  Maye  explored  the  hidden  treasures  of  the 
grand  old  building,  from  haunted  garret  to  subterranean 
passage  leading  nowhere,  below  the  moat.  The  whole 
place  was  a  perfect  paradise  to  Maye,  who  was  always  dis- 
covering new  nooks  and  beauties  in  it,  and  in  her  frankly 
expressed  appreciation,  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  old 
man  s  heart  as  the  days  collected  into  weeks.  Even  the  old 
housekeeper  got  over  her  suspicion  of  this  new  face  about 
the  house  and  Mr.  Trevanion  used  laughingly  to  call  her 
"the  fair  Chatelaine  of  Trthwwsthpllgg."  It  may  also  be 
mentioned  that  Maye  had  given  further  evidence  of  her 
Cornish  origin  by  being  the  only  person  about  the  place, 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Trevanion,  who  could  say  "  Trthw- 
wsthpllgg "  quickly,  without  premeditation,  and  without  im- 
mediately suffering  from  paralysis  of  the  tongue. 

"  I  envy  you  your  children,"  said  their  host  to  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  ;  "  upon  my  soul,  I  envy  you.  I  wish  my  boy  were 


2l8  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

more  like  yours,  and  I  wish  Maye  Trevethick  were  going  to 
be  my  daughter-in-law  instead  of  yours." 

And  Mrs.  Hawleigh  would  laugh  it  off,  though  sometimes 
she  threw  an  anxious  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  pair  as 
they  walked  round  the  moat  arm-in-arm,  Maye  chattering 
gayly  and  describing  it  all  to  Gabriel ;  he  with  his  blind  brown 
eyes  fixed  on  the  darkness  before  him,  whilst  he  smiled  at 
his  conductress  and  played  with  the  fingers  of  the  hand  that 
held  his  own. 

They  had  been  living  happy  in  this  new  phase  of  their 
exile  for  about  three  weeks  when  an  anxious  day  dawned  for 
Mrs.  Hawleigh.  Dr.  Richardson,  Gabriel's  London  phy- 
sician, had  determined  to  come  down  to  Dartmoor  to  report 
on  the  progress  of  his  patient  towards  recovery.  It  had  been 
almost  impossible  to  say,  before  the  Hawleighs  left  town, 
what  Gabriel's  chances  really  were.  His  health  was  so  im- 
paired by  the  shock  that  a  perfect  diagnosis  was  almost  im- 
possible, and  Dr.  Richardson  had  promised  to  come  down, 
when  the  grand  air  of  the  moor  should  have  had  its  effect 
upon  Gabriel's  bodily  health,  to  make  a  new  examination  of 
his  eyes.  The  long-looked-for  visit  was  now  expected,  and 
it  had  been  arranged  that  Maye  should  spend  the  day  at 
Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor,  returning  only  after  the  departure 
of  Dr.  Richardson  in  the  evening  for  London.  He  could 
not  stay  over  until  the  following  morning. 

Accordingly,  "the  Autocrat  of  Trthwwsthpllgg"  had 
driven  over  early  and  carried  her  off,  taking  her  for  a  long 
drive  round  the  neighborhood  before  they  arrived  at  the 
manor-house  for  lunch. 

In  the  early  afternoon  the  old  gentleman  and  the  young 
girl  were  sitting  together  on  the  lawn  within  the  moat,  when 
suddenly  he  startled  her  by  saying  : 

"  Have  you  any  definite  notion  when  you  are  going  to  be 
married,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  had  replied,  suddenly  awakened  from  a  delicious 
reverie  about  nothing  at  all. 


THE  A UTOCRA T  OF  TR THWWSTHPLL GG.         2ig 

"  Supposing  this  blindness  of  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  should 
prove  to  be  really  incurable  after  all  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  In  that  case  would  you  still  become  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  Mr.  Trevanion.  How  could  you  doubt  it  for 
a  moment  ?  " 

"  And  what  would  you  live  upon,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I — I — don't  know,"  faltered  Maye,  helplessly.  "  I  never 
think  about  it." 

"  But  surely  you  must  think  about  it,  my  child.  Do  not 
think  me  inquisitive  or  impertinent,  but  I  think  I  understood 
Mrs.  Hawleigh  to  say  that  the  only  means  you  have  con- 
sist of  her  annuity 'and  what  Gabriel  made  by  his  painting." 

"  Yes — that  is  true." 

"  And  if  Gabriel  can  never  paint  again  ?  Supposing 
(which  heaven  forbid  !)  Mrs.  Hawleigh  should  die  ?  What 
would  you  young  people  do  ?  " 

"I — I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl.  "I  can  paint  a 
little,  and  I  can  play  the  piano.  I  could  teach — and — and 
— I  suppose  we  should  get  along  somehow,"  she  concluded, 
vaguely. 

A  long  pause  ensued,  which  was  broken  at  last  by  Mr. 
Trevanion  saying,  as  if  to  himself : 

"  What  an  affliction  !  what  an  affliction  ! — for  an  artist  of 
all  men,  too  !  Just  as  he  had  planted  his  foot  on  the  first 
rung  of  the  ladder  of  fame — to  be  blinded,  with  only  his  art 
as  a  means  of  support !  Well — well !  how  capricious  For- 
tune is  !  There  is  my  son  Eric ;  he  might  be  rich  and 
prosperous,  and  can  see  as  well  as  you  and  I  can  ;  whilst 
poor  Gabriel,  who  depends  on  his  eyes  for  a  living,  is 
blinded  at  what  is  practically  the  very  commencement  of  his 
career." 

"  Oh !  do  not  speak  of  it,  1  beg  of  you,  Mr.  Trevanion — 
it  is  all  so  sad — so  sad — and  so  hopeless." 

"  Well — there  !  I  won't  say  any  more  about  it.  But — 
Maye,  my  dear  child — forgive  me  if  I  say  that  if  you  could 
have  loved  my  boy,  and  he  had  been  worthy  of  you,  I  should 


22O  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

have  been  the  happiest  man  in  Cornwall — nay,  in  the  world  ! 
If  only  you  could  have  loved  him !  " 

If  only  she  could  have  loved  him  !     Ah — yi ! 

And  deep  in  her  heart  Maye  knew  that  the  love  of  her 
whole  life  had  been  given,  long  ago,  to  the  son  of  the  man 
who  sat  by  her  side  pleading  for  his  boy — who  had  never 
known — and  asking  nothing  better  than  to  end  his  days  in 
his  beautiful  old  manor-house,  whilst  the  woman  by  his  side 
laid  her  touch  upon  everything  there  to  brighten  it,  and  the 
old  oak-panelled  corridors  echoed  with  the  laughter  of  his 
grandchildren. 

******* 

The  drive  back  was  accomplished  almost  in  silence.  Mr. 
Trevanion  left  her  at  the  garden  gate,  promising  to  drive 
over  in  the  morning  to  hear  the  news  about  Gabriel. 

The  news  about  Gabriel !  Dr.  Richardson  had  come  and 
gone  ;  had  gone  away  looking  very  grave,  and  leaving  with 
Mrs.  Hawleigh  only  a  very  slender  remnant  of  the  hope  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  Holland  Street.  He  was  to  hold 
another  consultation  with  the  eminent  oculist  in  London, 
and  in  a  week  or  ten  days,  at  most,  was  to  write  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  his  final  opinion  and  Verdict  on  the  case  of 
Gabriel,  her  son. 

This  was  the  news  which  the  laird  of  Trthwwsthpllgg 
heard  next  morning  when  he  came  over  to  the  cottage — 
news  which  he  received  with  genuine  expressions  of  grief. 
Only  Gabriel  seemed  unaffected  by  his  lot — he  wandered 
about  the  house  quietly  as  heretofore,  now  and  then  playing 
a  few  bars  on  his  violin,  which  lay  ever  ready  to  his  hand  in 
the  little  parlour,  or  strolling  out  into  the  garden  among  the 
flowers,  which  he  had  come  to  kno-w  by  their  perfume  and 
touch. 

Before  he  left,  Mr.  Trevanion  said : 

"  By-the-by,  in  my  concern  at  receiving  your  news  I  almost 
forgot  to  give  you  mine.  Eric,  my  boy,  has  at  last  yielded 
to  our  prayers — he  is  coming  down  to  Trthwwsthpllgg.  I 
am  going  to  meet  him  at  the  station  on  my  way  home." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ATTRACTION    AND    REPULSION. 

"  IT  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning,"  said  a  philosopher 
whose  name  is,  I  believe,  lost  to  the  posterity  by  which  he 
is  quoted.  The  critically-disposed  may  say  that  the  turning 
is  of  little  use  to  the  traveller  if  he  does  not  reach  it  before 
he  falls  from  very  weariness.  Another  proverbial  philoso- 
pher has  said  that,  "  When  things  are  at  their  worst,  they  are 
sure  to  mend."  This  dogmatist  had  more  reason  than  the 
other,  and  if  he  thought  of  it  at  all  before  he  said  it,  he  had 
probably  observed  that  things  mend  when  they  are  at  their 
worst,  because  it  is  then  and  not  until  then,  that,  throwing 
everything  aside,  and  sacrificing  our  feelings  to  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  we  are  forced  to  make  the  supreme 
effort  which,  made  earlier  in  the  game,  would  have  obviated 
the  progression  of  "  things  "  to  their  possible  worst.  It  must 
not  be  supposed  that  I  recommend  the  utilization  of  the 
supreme  effort  one  moment  before  it  becomes  absolutely 
necessary ;  on  the  contrary,  nee  deus  intersit,  dignus  ni 
vindice  nodus,  as  the  Classic  says.  Never — despite  the 
axiom — do  to-day  what  can  possibly  be  put  off  till  to-morrow. 
Procrastination,  as  I  have  before  remarked  in  these  pages, 
is  the  soul  of  business,  notwithstanding  the  oratorical 
assertion  of  the  copy-book  to  the  contrary. 

Things  were  not  yet  at  their  very  worst  for  Eric  Trevan- 
ion.  It  was  fortunate  for  him  and  for  my  story  that  he  did 
not  know  this.  Had  he  imagined  that  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  be  more  supremely  wretched  than  he  was  when  we 
left  him  last,  he  would  assuredly  have  killed  himself.  His 
feeling  for  Daphne  Pre'ault  was  only  one  of  the  profoundest 
pity — a  pity  that  was  reflected  upon  himself. 

221 


222  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Eric  Trevanion  was  pitiably  poor  :  he  had  rebelled  against 
receiving  assistance  from  Daphne,  and  was  living,  miserably, 
on  what  he  could  make  by  his  pen.  His  pride  being  crushed, 
he  no  longer  wrote  in  the  high-flown,  debonair  style  of  the 
scholar  and  man  of  the  world  :  he  had  turned  his  talent  to 
baser  uses,  and  had  made  it  pay  him,  inadequately  to  his  bare 
needs,  but  still  it  paid  him.  His  poems,  which  were  sicklied 
o'er  with  the  stupidity  and  incomprehensibility  of  the  decen- 
nium  in  which  he  lived,  came  home  to  him  like  curses,  send 
them  where  he  would :  at  length  he  had  made  a  holocaust  of 
them,  and  in  sheer  cynicism  had  scribbled  off  a  set  of  rhymes 
of  social  small-talk,  with  a  slang  refrain.  These  he  sent  to 
a  society  paper,  which  accepted  them,  paid  for  them  at  once, 
and  asked  him  to  write  more.  An  idyllic  story  which  his 
soul  had  loved  more  and  more  every  time  a  magazine  editor 
returned  it  to  him,  he  had  ruthlessly  cut  to  pieces,  inter- 
polating a  series  of  incidents  that  turned  it  into  a  glaring 
advertisement  of  a  patent  medicine.  He  sent  the  MS.  to 
the  proprietors  of  said  specific,  and  received  by  return  of 
post  a  cheque  which  cleared  his  landwoman's  scorbutic  physi- 
ognomy of  the  scowl  it  had  worn  for  a  month  past.  With  the 
exception  of  his  lodging-bill  he  kept  out  of  debt,  and  for  the 
most  pertinent  of  all  reasons — he  could  not  get  into  it. 
Things  got  bad  by  degrees  and  beautifully  worse,  and  Eric 
became  a  literary  hack.  The  position  had  one  advantage  : 
the  occupation  of  his  days,  spent  among  his  kind  in  the 
Reading-room  of  the  British  Museum,  took  him  far  from 
Daphne,  who  idled  away  her  life  in  Holland  Street  in 
practically  no  companionship  save  that  of  Mahinoure  du 
Peyral,  with  whom  she  had  struck  up  an  intimacy  that 
caused  Eric  a  mingled  feeling  of  fear,  jealousy,  and  disgust. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  dn  the  society  of  the  penniless  horde 
of  scribblers  who  practically  lived  in  the  "Museum,  he 
breathed  a  purer  atmosphere  than  that  which  filled  the 
perfumed  studio  in  Holland  Street. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  history  that  I  first  got  to  know 
him  well,  for  I  also  was  one  of  the  gang  that  day  after  day 


ATTRACTION  AND  REPULSION.  223 

breathed  that  invigorating  atmosphere  of  book-dust,  penury, 
and  ink.  We  adopted  Eric  as  one  of  us,  for  he  was  as  poor 
as  the  poorest  of  the  crew,  and  to-day,  when  we  are  most  of 
us  respectable  members  of  society,  we  often  talk  together 
of  what  Theophile  Gautier  called,  with  perfect  truth,  "those 
happy  days  when  we  were  so  miserable  ! " 

And  our  misery  was  happy.  What  a  merry  crowd  we 
were !  There  are  men  whom  I  meet  to-day,  rich,  respected, 
and  celebrated,  who  were  then  poor,  disreputable,  and 
obscure.  I  remember  one  day  in  particular,  when  a  man 
who  now  commands  whatever  price  he  likes  to  ask,  for  any- 
thing he  writes,  came  down  to  the  Museum,  his  haggard 
face  irradiated  with  a  smile  of  triumph — he  had  not  tasted 
food  for  forty-eight  hours,  and  I  don't  believe  that  the  lot 
of  us  possessed  a  pound  between  us.  We  crowded  round 
him  to  hear  the  news.  He  had  a  commission  to  write  a 
special  article  for  a  leading  review.  He  had  received  five 
pounds  on  account,  and  was  to  receive  fifteen  on  delivery  of 
the  manuscript — and  the  manuscript  was  to  be  delivered 
next  day.  He  was  an  incorrigible  idler,  and  we  banded 
together  to  make  him  knock  off  the  article,  inviting  our- 
selves to  dine  with  him  on  the  following  night.  Then  we 
left  him  alone,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  went  to  his  seat  to 
find  out  how  he  had  got  on.  He  was  entrenched  behind 
a  fortification  of  reference-books  and  authorities  ;  and  the 
article — well  !  not  a  line  was  written  ;  he  had  spent  the  day 
in  writing  a  Latin  ode  in  exquisite  elegiacs,  which  I  still 
possess  (it  hangs,  framed,  on  the  wall  of  my  study),  on  the 
contrast  between  the  colour  of  the  Superintendent's  hair 
and  Fitzgerald  Molloy's  neck-tie.  He  went  home  that  even- 
ing without  having  approached  the  subject  of  his  article, 
and  we  were  in  despair.  He  owed  me  five  shillings,  and 
hope  had  been  telling  me  a  flattering  tale  all  day,  to  the 
effect  that  I  was  going  to  get  it  back.  Next  evening,  at  six 
o'clock,  he  took  down  to  the  office  of  the Revieiv  a  posi- 
tive masterpiece,  which  practically  laid  the  foundation  of  his 
present  fame;  and  "the  gang"  dined  with  him  at  Ram- 


224  *'UE   PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

pazzi's  in  Soho,  and  adjourned  for  an  all-night  sitting  at  his 
rooms  in  Great  Ormond  Street,  Bloomsbury.  That  is  how 
we  lived,  and  Eric  Trevanion  with  us. 

We  soon  "  licked  him  into  shape,"  and  gradually  he  sank 
with  us  from  literature  to  journalism,  as  a  preliminary 
towards  rising  from  journalism  to  literature  by  the  ladder  of 
advertisement.  He  was  not  quite  a  stranger  among  us,  for 
I  had  met  him  in  Holland  Street,  and  Bernard  Rawlinson 
was  intermittently  one  of  the  crew.  It  was  through  him 
that  Eric  joined  us,  and  it  was  to  that  versatile  genius  that 
he  owed  his  first  lesson  in  practical  journalism.  Eric  had 
been  sitting  idle  at  his  seat  all  the  morning,  when  Rawlin- 
son came  and  asked  him  why  he  didn't  write,  instead  of 
gazing  on  vacancy  in  search  of  inspiration. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  write  about  that  anybody  wants  to 
read,"  replied  he,  dolefully. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ? "  replied  the  Bohemian  ;  "  write  about 
nothing." 

"  What  bosh  !  "  exclaimed  Trevanion.  "  I  defy  anybody 
to  write  about  nothing." 

"  Defy  anybody,  if  you  like,"  was  the  answer,  "  but  don't 
defy  me ;  ''  and,  so  saying,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing, which,  short  and  fabricless,  was  completely  to  the 
point,  and  sold  for  one  pound  ten ! 

"NOTHING!" 
"  A  STUDY  OF  MODERN  JOURNALISTIC  ART." 

"  A  BOY  whom  I  left  in  a  little  country  town,  beloved  of 
parents  who  were  quite  unparentally  charming,  wrote  to  me 
a  few  months  ago,  and  asked  my  advice  as  to  whether  he 
should  give  up  his  obscure  and  uninteresting,  but  compara- 
tively lucrative  position  on  a  stool  in  a  provincial  bank,  to 
embrace  the  profession  of  letters,  to  matriculate  in  journal- 
ism and  graduate  as  a  literary  man.  I  sent  him  at  once 
Balzac's  '  Bible  of  the  Journalist,'  to  wit,  the  two  volumes 
of  the  '  Illusions  Perdues '  and  '  Splendeurs  et  Miseres  des 


A  TTRA C TION  A ND  REPULSION.  22$ 

Courtisanes,'  accompanying  this  gift  with  two  grains  of  pure 
aconitine  in  a  gelatine  capsule.  I  instructed  him  to  read 
the  first,  and  then,  if  he  still  felt  himself  endowed  with  a 
constitution,  mental  and  physical,  that  warranted  him  in 
living  or  dying  on  what  he  could  get  out  of  letters,  to  find  a 
spot  where  it  was  not  untidy  to  die,  to  lie  down,  and  swallow 
the  alkaloid. 

"  He  wrote  back  shortly  afterwards,  returning  me  the 
poison  and  announcing  that  he  had  decided  to  follow  the 
fortunes  of  Lucien  de  Rubempre,  rather  than  be  warned 
by  the  fate  of  Balzac's  hero.  In  vain  I  pointed  out  to  him 
the  fact  that  nowadays  Coralies  and  Mile,  de  Grandlieus  are 
scarce,  if  not  an  extinct  race  ;  he  abandoned  his  regular 
hours  and  salary,  and  began  to  starve  on  the  potential  pro- 
ceeds of  precariously  launched  articles  that  interested  no 
one,  and  that  editors  betrayed  a  tendency  to  refuse  consist- 
ently to  buy.  Nay  more;  so  badly  was  he  bitten,  so  pro- 
foundly did  he  develop  the  hydrophobia  of  literature,  that, 
realizing  his  small  possessions,  he  came  up  to  London,  like 
a  modern  Lucien,  and  proceeded  to  starve  in  the  great 
metropolis. 

"  Proud  as  Lucifer,  he  confided  his  penury  to  no  one  ;  it 
had  no  outward  and  visible  sign  save  in  the  poverty  of  his 
lodgings,  to  which  he  admitted  never  a  soul ;  and  he  died 
in  my  arms  a  fortnight  ago,  of  combined  starvation  and 
nervous  prostration. 

"  Why  ?  Ah  !  that  is  the  point.  He  died  because  he  had 
nothing  to  write  about,  and  yet  could  not  write  about  it. 
He  died — of  starvation,  here  in  Bloomsbury — because  he 
could  not  write  unless  he  had  a  subject  to  write  upon. 

"  The  man  who  cannot  write  about  nothing  at  a  moment's 
notice  cannot  make  a  living  as  a  journalist. 

"  Priggish  societies  with  ridiculous  names  have  met  and 
discussed  learnedly — if  chaotically — 'The  Nothingness  of 
Everything ' :  a  literary  coterie  that  will  establish  the  '  Every- 
thingness  of  Nothing  '  has  yet  to  rise,  Phoenix-like,  from  the 
ashes  of  unsuccessful  journalists.  It  is  a  solemn  and  an 


226  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

undeniable  fact,  that  unless  one  can  write  a  column  on  Noth- 
ing at  all,  and  do  it  more  or  less  attractively,  one  has  no 
right  to  attach  one's  self  to  the  permanent  staff  of  a  journal 
— in  point  of  fact,  one  can't  get  there. 

"  It  is  the  age  of  journalistic  commonplace  ;  one  must 
idealize  commonplace  trifles,  or  one  cannot  expect  to  be 
understood.  This  state  of  things  arises  from  the  bias/  con- 
dition of  the  modern  reader's  faculties.  The  literary  exalta- 
tion of  Nothing  is  the  only  pabulum  which  the  debilitated 
intellects  of  a  large  class  of  readers  to-day  are  capable  of 
assimilating.  Therefore  let  us  establish  schools  for  the  de- 
velopment and  study  of  mental  anaemia,  that  a  new  genera- 
tion of  writers  may  arise  in  our  midst,  whose  works  shall  be 
'easily  understanded  of  the  people.'  because  their  end  is  the 
glorification  of  Nothing  at  All. 

"  [Signed]  BERNARD  RAWLINSON." 

"  There,"  said  the  picturesque  Bernard,  as  he  handed 
over  the  manuscript  with  a  smile,  "  that  is  how  to  write  about 
Nothing.  Go,  thou.  and  do  likewise." 

But  Eric  found  it  very  hard  to  "go  and  do  likewise." 
He  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of  literary  insuccess. 
Often  editors — cultivated  men — would  be  charmed  by  the 
epigrammatic  way  in  which  he  would  present  the  most  unin- 
teresting matter,  and,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  would  ac- 
cept his  manuscripts;  but  he  scanned  their  journals  in  vain 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  himself  in  print,  and  finally,  when  he 
called  upon  them  or  wrote  on  the  subject,  they  would  return 
him  his  work  with  something  like  shame,  "  regretting  that 
want  of  space  prevented  them  from  utilizing  his  articles,  for 
the  offer  of  which,  however,  they  thanked  him,  and  re- 
mained faithfully  his,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  ;  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  day's  contemplative  quietude  in  the  Museum,  he  would 
return  to  Holland  Street,  almost  dreading  to  enter  the  studio 
which  had  become  associated  in  his  mind  with  so  many  sweet 
and  bitter  thoughts. 

One  evening,  when  he  arrived  at  Daphne  Preault's,  a  sur- 


A  TTKA  CT1ON  AND  REPULSION.  227 

prise  awaited  him.  He  had  divested  himself  of  his  impedi- 
menta in  the  hall,  and  penetrated  to  the  studio.  As  he  did 
so,  a  man  who  was  sitting  chatting  with  Daphne  and  Mah- 
moure  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed;  "Dr.  Van  BoomkampJ  this  is 
indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  returned  the  psychologist,  scruti- 
nizing him  keenly  through  his  gold  pince-nez.  "  Miss  Pre'- 
ault  and  Madame  du  Peyral  are  deep  in  business  matters. 
I  have  hoped  to  meet  you  again,  and  to-night  my  hope  is 
realized.  Will  you  do  me  the  pleasure  of  taking  dinner 
with  me  at  my  hotel,  and  we  can  continue  the  conversation 
that  we  began  at  Dr.  P 's  ?  " 

Eric  looked  at  Daphne,  and  she  answered  his  look  by 
saying :  "  Yes,  Eric.  Madame  du  Peyral  and  I  have  some 
important  business  to  discuss,  and  some  correspondence  to 
go  through.  We  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  out  of  the  way, 
tres  cher" 

"In  that  case,"  said  Eric,  "I  am  quite  at  your  service, 
Dr.  Van  Boomkamp  ; "  and  so  it  was  arranged. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  the  two  men  took  their  departure, 
and  left  the  two  women  together. 

It  was  not  until  they  found  themselves  seated  .comfort- 
ably after  dinner  in  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp's  room  at  the  Hotel 
Metropole,  that  they  approached  the  subject  which  was  of 
the  deepest  interest  to  both  of  them.  It  was  the  American 
who  opened  the  conversation  by  saying  : 

"  Miss  Preault  and  Madame  du  Peyral  seem  to  have  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  one  another,  do  they  not  ?  " 

"Yes — it  is  a  very  strange  sympathy,  and  one  that  I  can- 
not understand,"  replied  Trevanion.  "  As  you  know,  doubt- 
less, without  my  telling  you,  Miss  Preault  and  I  have  been, 
and  I  trust  are  still,  very  great  friends.  I  know  her  life  very 
well  for  the  last  four  years.  Until  now  no  woman  has  ever 
been  her  intimate  friend  ;  this  Madame  du  Peyral  seems  to 
possess  a  strange  fascination  over  her." 


228  THE  PRIX  CESS  DAPHNE. 

11  Strange — yes — to  the  casual  observer,  but  to  the  psychol- 
ogist not  so  strange.  You  are,  I  know,  the  intimate  friend 
of  Miss  Preault.  Owing  to  circumstances  into  which  it  is 
not  necessary  to  enter,  I  know  a  great  deal  concerning  Ma- 
dame du  Peyral,  and  their  friendship  interests  whilst  it  fails 
to  astonish  me.  It  is  of  this  that  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  You  knew  Paul  du  Peyral  ? " 

"  I  saw  him  die." 

"  Ah ! " 

"  You  doubtless  remember  my  recounting  a  curious  psy- 
chological case  at  Dr.  P 's  on  the  occasion  of  our  first 

meeting?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  The  man  and  woman  in  New  York,  to  whom  I  alluded, 
were  Paul  and  Madame  du  Peyral." 

"  And  the  woman  in  Europe  ? — " 

"Was  Miss  Daphne  Pre'ault." 

"  Good  God  !  She  said  something  to  this  effect  herself, 
when  I  repeated  your  story." 

"  In  all  my  experience  with  the  workings  of  mental 
science  I  have  never  encountered  a  stranger  case.  Acci- 
dent has- gathered  all  the  threads  into  my  hands,  and  I  have 
postponed  my  visit  to  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  watching  the 
denouement  of  the  drama,  for  drama  it  is,  in  every  accepta- 
tion of  the  term." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  needless  to  say  that  whatever  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  say  to  me,  will  remain  under  the  seal  of  a 
professional  confidence.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  you  know 
of  Miss  Preault — of  her  life  from  the  moment  you  became 
— er — connected;  of  her  mental  state,  of  her  physical  ill- 
ness— everything." 

"  So  be  it." 

And  Eric  gave  to  the  American  doctor,  who  listened  in- 
tently, every  now  and  then  making  an  entry  in  his  note-book 


A  TTKA C TIOiV  A ND  REPULSION.  22$ 

or  asking  for  a  date,  a  complete  account  of  the  circum- 
stances which  had  puzzled,  had  frightened  him,  with  regard 
to  the  woman  who,  before  her  most  serious  attack,  had  been 
"The  Princess  Daphne." 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  recital,  he  said  : 

"  Now,  Dr.  Van  Boomkamp,  I  have  been  eminently 
explicit  with  you  ;  may  I  ask  for  an  exchange  of  confidence  ? 
What  is  your  explanation  of  these  phenomena  ?  " 

Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp  rose  and  paced  the  room  in 
silence  for  a  few  moments.  Finally,  re-seating  himself,  he 
spoke  as  follows  : 

"  The  case  turns  upon  a  strange  coincidence  of  personality 
existing  between  Miss  Pre'ault  and  Paul  du  Peyral.  She 
was  almost  what  the  Germans  call  his  doppelganger,  and  on 
his  death  his  personality  became  merged  in  hers." 

"Then—?" 

"  Miss  Daphne  Preault  is  Paul  du  Peyral." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  explain  yourself  !  " 

"  Psychological  science,  founded  as  it  is  upon  neurology, 
despite  the  labours  of  Georget,  of  Charcot,  of  Bell,  of  Bain, 
of  Kollmann,  and  a  host  of  others,  is  practically  in  its 
infancy.  Mesmerism  is  a  phenomenon  which  the  condi- 
tions of  its  existence  render  very  difficult  to  examine 
scientifically.  Here  we  have  two  people,  who,  though  sep- 
arated by  half  a  hemisphere,  were  practically  identical  with 
one  another,  speaking  psychologically.  Through  the  medium 
of  this  strange  foreign  woman  their  souls  found  one  another, 
and  little  by  little  Paul  du  Peyral  transferred  his  psychic  force 
to  Miss  Daphne  Preault.  The  completeness  with  which 
this  was  done  was  due  to  the  fact  that,  springing  from  a 
common  ancestry,  they  have,  by  a  freak  of  heredity,  "  thrown 
back,"  as  it  were.  The  exact  physical  process  it  is  impos- 
sible to  describe — the  result  has  been  apparent  in  what  we 
will  call,  for  the  sake  of  definition,  Miss  Preault's  fits  of 
obsession.  These  occurred  coincidentally  with  Paul  du 
Peyral's  experiments.  The  culminating  phenomenon  oc- 
curred with  the  death  of  du  Peyral :  his  illness  was  an- 


230  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

swered,  as  it  were,  by  Miss  Preault's,  and  at  the  moment 
that  he  died  he  fancied  that  he  saw  her  ;  at  the  moment  of  her 
apparent* death  his  soul  seems  to  have  sought  hers,  and  was 
seen,  or  apparently  seen,  by  the  black  woman  Clytemnestra, 
who  has  always  been  closely  allied  with  her.  His  wife,  by- 
reason  of  his  repeated  experiments  with  her,  has  become 
strongly  identified  with  him,  but  his  soul  sought  that  of  his 
alter  ego — Miss  Preault.  He  was  a  man  of  little  or  no 
principle ;  in  Miss  Preault  the  good  and  the  bad  seem  to 
have  been  about  equally  divided  ;  the  good  was  dying  out  in 
her  when  its  place  was  taken  by  the  salient  features  of  his 
personality.  She  lived  again  with  his  soul,  but  the  strain 
has  been  too  great,  she  is  overburdened  by  a  vitality  from 
which  she  cannot  escape,  and  which  she  cannot  bear  ;  his 
wife  sapped  his  physical  attributes,  Miss  Pre'ault  his  mental 
ones.  They  are  both  disordered,  ill-regulated,  mentally 
diseased  in  consequence ;  Miss  Preault  is,  and  has  been,  in 
a  state  of  physical  and  mental  hysteria  ever  since  this  trans- 
ference took  place  ;  Madame  du  Peyral,  robbed,  to  use  a 
nautical  simile,  of  her  steering  apparatus,  her  guiding  princi- 
ple, has  been  vainly  seeking  for  it  ever  since.  She  has  found 
it  ;  she — though  she  hardly  realizes  it  herself — fancies  that 
Miss  Pre'ault  is — well,  she  recognizes  in  her  new  friend  the 
vitality,  the  attributes,  the  personality  of  her  dead  husband." 

"  Explain  yourself  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  the  position  requires  the  most  careful 
supervision,  for  though  they  neither  of  them  know  it,  and 
though  orthodox  doctors  would  be  at  a  loss  to  admit  it,  both 
these  women,  when  in  the  presence  of  one  another,  are 
mad!" 

"  My  God— how  awful  !  " 

"  Not  awful,  but  deeply  interesting." 

"They  must  be  separated,  of  course." 

"  No — for  that  would  probably  either  kill  them,  or  drive 
them  dangerously  insane  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  They  must  quarrel,  and  part  naturally." 


A TTR ACTION  AND  REPULSION.  23 1 

"  But  how  can  that  be  brought  about  ?  " 

"  It  will  bring  itself  about  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events. 
They  will  probably  quarrel  over  you.  When  that  takes 
place,  Madame  du  Peyral  will  pursue  her  journey  to  Greece, 
which  has  been  interrupted  by  this  meeting,  and  I  hope  that 
Miss  Preault  will  regain  her  health  and  ordinary  mental 
equilibrium." 

It  was  close  upon  midnight  when  the  two  men  parted, 
and  Eric  trudged  home — save  the  mark  ! — to  Holland 
Street. 

Seeing  a  light  burning  in  Miss  Pre'ault's  vestibule,  he  went 
in,  and  passed  through  to  the  studio,  where  he  supposed  he 
should  find  her  alone. 

The  Creole  was  not  alone.  As  Eric  stood  motionless  in 
the  doorway  of  the  studio  he  saw  Daphne  lying  in  a  lazy, 
languorous  attitude  upon  the  lounge,  whilst  Mahmoure'  du 
Peyral  sat  by  hej|  side,  her  arms  twined  round  her,  looking 
into  her  eyes.  Daphne  was  playing  lazily  with  the  masses 
of  Mahmoure's  hair,  which  she  had  unbound,  and  which  were 
floating  in  tawny  billows  all  over  her  as  she  lay  among  the 
cushions.  Neither  woman  spoke,  but  the  silence  was  far 
more  eloquent  than  words — and  Eric,  as  he  stood  looking  at 
them,  felt  his  heart  swell  with  a  dull,  impotent  rage  against 
this  Greek  who  had  come  and  thrust  herself  between  him 
and  the  woman  he  had  loved.  The  slight  sound  he  made  in 
entering  was  unnoticed  by  Mahmoure,  who  had  her  back 
turned  to  the  door,  but  Daphne  opened  a  little  wider  her 
half-closed  eyes  and  said  : 

"  Ah  !  Eric.  Is  that  you  ?  I  didn't  suppose  you  would 
come  in  again  to-night." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  her  words  Mahmoure 
started  away,  but  Daphne,  restraining  her  by  winding  her 
arms  about  the  supple  little  figure,  said  : 

"  Don't  go  away,  dear.  He  isn't  going  to  stay.  Eric,  man 
cher,  come  in  the  morning,  will  you  ?  Madame  du  Peyral  is 
staying  here  with  me  to-night.  We  did  not  get  through  our 
work  till  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  think  of  going  home  alone." 


232  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Eric  turned  and  left  the  studio.  He  had  not  spoken  a 
word  since  he  entered.  Mahmoure  du  Peyral  had  not 
turned  her  head  in  his  direction.  He  was  glad  of  it. 

Arrived  at  his  own  rooms  he  spent  an  hour  feverishly 
pacing  up  and  down,  reviewing  the  position  and  criticising 
himself,  nothing  extenuating,  nothing  hiding.  Week  by 
week,  month  by  month,  he  lived  over  again  the  period  of  his 
liaison  with  the  fascinating  Creole.  It  had  begun  with  her 
song  at  Gabriel  Hawleigh's  Bohemian  soiree  ;  it  had  ended 
— ended  ? — with  Dr.  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp's  precis  of  the 
case  of  the  Princess  Daphne,  and  its  corroboration  before  his 
very  eyes  half  an  hour  ago.  Hardly  more  than  half  a  year, 
but  in  that  time  what  multifold  experiences  had  been  his  ! 
Every  month  seemed  an  age  as  he  looked  back  upon  the 
time  :  he  had  passed  through  every  phase  of  worldly  con- 
dition and  every  nuance  of  the  thing  called  "  love."  And 
what  had  he  now  ?  From  affluence  he  had  ^llen  to  poverty 
— sordid,  grinding  poverty — and  from  passionate  adoration 
to  a  feeling  very  near  akin  to  profound  disgust.  Daphne 
Preault  had  declined  from  her  altitude  as  queen  of  his  soul, 
to  a  weird,  monstrous,  unnatural  problem ;  and  as  he  thought 
of  the  interview  next  day  great  beads  of  perspiration  started 
to  his  forehead.  What  would  the  morrow  bring  forth  ?  He 
felt  that,  before  another  sun  would  set,  his  future  course 
would  be  definitively  shaped — and  in  what  direction  ?  He 
could  not  tell — he  dared  not  surmise. 

He  passed  a  restless  night,  and  next  morning  waited, 
watching  the  door  of  the  cottage  opposite  for  Madame  du 
Peyral's  departure.  At  length  it  came,  and  ten  minutes 
later  he  confronted  Daphne  Preault  in  her  studio. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  alone,"  he  began  ;  "  I  have  been 
watching  for  that  woman  to  leave  you.  I  have  something 
serious  to  discuss  with  you." 

"  Have  you  ? "  replied  she,  her  womanly  scent  giving  her 
premonition  of  a  "  scene,"  and  drawing  herself  into  a  position 
of  aggressive  attention.  "  If  you  have  a  great  deal  to  say 


•  A  TTKA  C TION  AND  REPULSION.  233 

you  had  better  begin  at  once,  for   she  will  be   back   here 
very  soon." 

"  Back  here  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  have  persuaded  her  to  come  and  stay  with  me 
for  a  few  days — perhaps  till  she  leaves  England." 

"  Oh !  indeed !  then  that  makes  my  way  clear  before 
me." 

Daphne  Pre'ault  had  selected  a  cigarette  from  her  case, 
and,  lighting  it,  had  settled  herself  in  the  lounge,  like  some 
beautiful  wild  animal,  crouching  on  the  defensive,  whilst 
Eric  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"Daphne,"  he  began,  his  voice  growing  stronger  and  his 
manner  more  determined  as  he  went  on,  "  you  and  I  must 
distinctly  understand  one  another.  Our  love  for  one  an- 
other is  not,  alas !  what  it  was,  and  sooner  or  later  we 
must  speak  plainly — better  to-day  than  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Eric — go  on." 

"You  have  made  life  very  beautiful  for  me  all  these 
months,  and  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul  I  am  grateful, 
dear ;  but  there  should  be  no  question  of  gratitude  between 
us.  A  love  such  as  ours  has  been  must  live  upon  itself 
alone — by  itself,  and  of  itself ;  it  cannot  decrease,  it  can 
only  change ;  and  once  changed — God  help  us  ! — it  is  ex- 
tinguished. I  have  asked  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  love  you 
still,  in  spite  of  the  troubles  that  have  come  between  us  ; 
if  you  love  me  in  return,  I  ask  you  again  to  share  my  life 
with  me,  and  proclaim  ourselves  one  before  all  men." 

"  My  dear  boy — why  should  I  ?  " 

"  For  every  reason  in  the  world — for  your  purity,  for  my 
honour,  for  our  happiness." 

"  But,  my  dear  Eric,  I  am  quite  content  to  remain  as  I 
am — free — unrestrained — Bohemian.  Love  is  for  me  an 
ecstasy — I  will  never  make  it  a  bondage." 

"  Then  the  love  you  offer  me  is  not  the  love  I  ask  of  you ! 
It  is  not  love  at  all — it  is  mere  passion." 

"  Call  it  what  you  will,"  replied  the  woman  ;  "it  suits  me 
as  it  is." 


234  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"And  you  would  insult  the  name  of  love  by  giving  it  to  an 
emotion  that  is  capable  of  no  sacrifice  ?  " 

"  Sacrifice  ! — have  I  made  no  sacrifice  already  ?  What 
would  you  have  of  me  now  ?  " 

"  First  and  foremost  that  you  should  give  up  the  friend- 
ship of  this  du  Peyral  woman.  It  is  infamous,  disgraceful, 
unworthy  of  you.  Then  that  you  should  come  with  me  as 
my  wife  somewhere,  anywhere,  to  your  own  America,  if  you 
will — but  to  a  spot  where  no  one  shall  be  able  to  whisper 
about  us  as  they  do  here." 

"  Really,  Eric — I  think  it  is  as  well  to  be  as  frank  with 
you  as  you  are  with  me.  Your  programme  does  not  suit  me. 
I  like  you — I  am  rich  enough  to  indulge  my  likes  or  dislikes 
— you  shall  share  my  home,  my  fortune,  if  you  will — but  I 
will  not  be  bound  down  by  any  laws.  And  mark  me — I  will 
not  be  dictated  to.  As  for  Madame  du  Peyral — or  '  the 
du  Peyral  woman,'  as  you  contemptuously  call  her — she  at- 
tracts and  she  pleases  me.  I  shall  keep  up  my  acquaintance 
with  her  in  any  form  I  please." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  rejoined  Eric,  turning  a  trifle  paler 
and  looking  yet  more  determined  ;  "you  will  have  to  choose 
between  her  and  me." 

"  Exactly  ! " 

"  And  your  choice  is — ? " 

"  Mon  cher  ami — she  has  all  the  charm  of  novelty  !  " 

"  Novelty  !— Good  God  ! " 

"  Yes — novelty.  If  you  must  know  the  truth,  you  weary 
me  with  your  sermons  on  honour,  your  tirades  upon  virtue 
and  all  that.  You  took  me  as  I  am." 

"  No — as  you  were !  " 

"Well,  then,"  exclaimed  Daphne,  her  eyes  flaming  at  last, 
"  I  am  changed — you  are  changed — we  are  changed — we  are 
tired  of  one  another — let  us  part !  I  prefer  this  woman  to 
you — there  ! — you  wanted  the  truth — you  have  it !  " 

"  Great  heavens  !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Not  only  possible,  but  existent.  Let  this  be  an  end  of 
it — let  us  square  our  accounts  and  part." 


A  TTR  ACTION  AND  REPULSION.  2$$ 

"Our  accounts?"  Eric  turned  a  vivid  crimson,  and  then 
became  deathly  pale.  He  thought  that  she  referred  to  the 
material  issues  between  them,  and  as  he  turned  away,  he 
added,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  True,  I  owe  you  money  as  well  as 
gratitude — you  are  right  to  remind  me  of  it ;  though  I  never 
forget  it,  night  or  day." 

It  was  an  insult ;  an  accidental  one,  it  is  true,  for  she  had 
not  dreamt  that  he  would  so  construe  her  expression.  Un- 
der its  sting,  she  turned  upon  him  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Very  well,  then — since  you  reduce  it  to  that  level,  so  be 
it.  Give  in  to  your  father  ;  he  will  welcome  his  prodigal 
son,  and  sell  his  fatted  calf  to  pay  your  debts.  This  is  the 
end  of  everything  between  us — I  despise  you,  Eric  Tre- 
vanion ! " 

"You  do  well  to  despise  me,  Miss  Preault,"  he  returned, 
bitterly — "  I  am  a  despicable  object,  and  you  have  a  right 
to  tell  me  of  it." 

What  she  would  have  replied  to  this  taunt  he  never  knew, 
for  at  that  moment  Clytie  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
studio  announcing  "  Madame  du  Peyral." 

It  was  the  culminating  point  of  the  scene.  Eric  recovered 
his  composure  as  he  bowed  to  Mahmoure,  and,  taking  his 
hat,  turned  to  Daphne,  who  was  greeting  the  new-comer  as 
if  they  had  been  parted  for  years.  He  said  : 

"  I  will  say  good-bye  now,  Miss  Preault ;  I  will  send  you 
over  a  note  during  the  afternoon  ;  "  and  so  saying  he  bowed 
and  left  the  studio. 

Mahmoure'  turned  after  him  an  enquiring  look. 

"  Tiens /"  said  she;  "there  has  been  an  unpleasantness  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  quarrelled  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  About  ? " 

"  You." 


236  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Daphne  received  a  note  from  Eric 
Trevanion  :  it  was  short,  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  I  write  merely  to  say  good-bye — the  scene  of  this  morn- 
ing leaves  no  other  course  open  to  me — to  us.  I  leave  for 
Cornwall  to-morrow.  We  have  a  few  little  matters  to  settle; 
I  think  that  I  have  them  clearly  stated ;  you  shall  hear  from 
me  from  home  in  a  day  or  two.  I  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,  and  should 
you  ever  want  a  friend  you  can  count  upon  me.  In  any 
other  capacity — good-bye. — ERIC  TREVANION." 

With  a  little  laugh  Daphne  handed  the  note  to  Mahmoure. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  latter,  "  now  I  am  really  happy.  Do  you 
know,  chere  amie,  I  loathed  that  man  from  the  first  moment  I 
set  eyes  upon  him." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  SPLENDIDE    MENDAX  !  " 

THE  return  of  Eric  to  Trthwwsthpllgg  was  an  occasion  of 
profound  rejoicing  to  two  people,  and  of  anxiety  which  bor- 
dered on  misery  to  two  others.  The  former  were  his  father 
and  Gabriel ;  the  latter  were  Mrs.  Hawleigh  and  Maye. 
Poor  Eric,  broken  in  spirit,  and  bereft  of  all  his  old  careless 
merriment,  saw  only  the  pleasure  that  his  presence  gave  to 
Trevanion  pere  and  the  blind  boy.  He  was  too  recently 
arrived  from  the  scenes  ^of  the  deepest  agony  he  had  ever 
suffered,  to  take  note  of  the  care  with  which  Maye  avoided 
being  alone  with  him,  a  care  that  was  almost  frustrated  by 
Mrs.  Hawleigh  in  her  endeavours  to  the  same  end.  The 
time  for  which  the  cottage  had  been  taken  had  elapsed,  and 
it  had  been  impossible  to  resist  Mr.  Trevanion's  prayer  that 
its  inmates  should  move  over  en  masse  to  Trthwwsthpllgg. 
Mrs.  Hawleigh  and  Maye  were  strongly  opposed  to  the 
change,  but  poor  Gabriel — poor,  blind  Gabriel — received  the 
invitation  with  the  first  transport  of  joy  he  had  known  since 
the  accident  in  the  studio.  To  Mrs.  Hawleigh's  mild  argu- 
ments against  the  advisability  of  such  a  step,  he  had  queru- 
lously replied  : 

"  Why,  mother,  why  not  ?  I'm  tired  of  this  pokey  little 
cottage ;  every  time  I  walk  two  yards,  I  run  up  against 
something — it's  narrow,  cramped,  e'trique ;  and  besides,  we 
see  so  much  of  the  Trevanions  that  we  might  just  as  well  be 
with  them  altogether.  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  London — 
not  until  I  can  see  again.  I  shall  be  able  to  see  again  some 
day — I  know  it — and  I  want  to  look  at  Dartmoor  before  I 
leave  it.  We  must  leave  the  cottage  anyhow — why  not  go 
to  Trevanion's  place  with  the  unpronounceable  name  ? — they 

237 


238  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

really  want  us  to.  It  must  be  an  awful  tax  upon  them, 
bringing  them  over  all  this  way  every  time.  Besides,  I  want 
to  go  there — I  adore  that  old  place — it's  lovely  to  wander 
about  in,  even  for  me,  and  /  cannot  see  it.  Do  accept, 
mother — do  accept." 

There  was  no  refusing  him,  and  so  it  was  settled,  though 
Mrs.  Hawleigh's  heart  sank  within  her,  and  Maye's  soul  was 
filled  with  a  vague  terror  of  she  knew  not  what.  Only,  dur- 
ing the  last  days  before  they  moved  she  devoted  herself 
more  assiduously  than  ever  to  her  poor,  blind  lover.  Did 
he  appreciate  her  devotion  ? — who  knows  ? — he  had  become 
accustomed  to  being  attended  to,  waited  on,  to  have  his 
lightest  wish  anticipated.  Accustomed — ah! — there  it  is. 
Accustomed  ! 

And  so  they  went  to  Trthwwsthpllgg,  and  found  them- 
selves at  home  at  once.  In  the  little  boudoir  Mrs.  Haw- 
leigh  would  sit  with  Mr.  Trevanion,  whilst  Gabriel  lay  on  the 
lounge  in  the  conservatory,  and  Maye  sat  talking  to  him  ;  or 
more  often  she  would  sit  with  Maye,  whilst  Eric  and  Gabriel 
went  for  strolls  round  the  place,  or  for  long  drives  into  the 
country,  from  which  he  would  return  radiant,  and  full  of 
Eric's  descriptions  of  the  scenery  through  which  they  had 
passed. 

"  Really,  do  you  know,"  he  used  to  say,  enthusiastically, 
"  Eric  ought  to  have  been  a  real  artist  instead  of  a  toy  one. 
If  his  picture-painting  equalled  his  word-painting  he'd  be 
famous  in  no  time.  He  has  been  describing  the  landscape 
to  me.  There  has  been  such  a  lovely  sunset ;  a  gorgeous 
blaze  of  crimson  and  gold,  melting  out  of  the  blue  heaven 
into  the  purple  and  browns  of  the  moor — the  most  beautiful 
thing  I  ever  saw,"  he  would  continue,  forgetting  himself,  his 
affiction,  everything,  in  his  artist's  enthusiasm ;  "  and  the 
very  next  picture  I  paint — Ah  !  what  am  I  saying? — what  am 
I  saying  ?  "  And  a  tear  would  gather  in  his  sightless  eyes 
as  he  turned  sadly  away,  to  fling  himself  upon  the  lounge,  or 
to  play  a  mournful  bar  or  two  upon  his  violin. 

Constantly  this  would  happen  :  happy  in  the  companion- 


"SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX!"  239 

ship  of  Eric  he  would  lose  all  memory  of  his  blindness,  to  be 
suddenly  reminded  of  it  and  stabbed  to  the  heart  by  the 
recollection ;  then  he  would  become  fretful,  and  Maye 
would  soothe  him  into  peace  again.  Sometimes  on  these 
occasions  Eric  would  look  at  her  with  something  like  star- 
tled wonder  in  his  eyes  at  the  spectacle  of  this  fair  young 
girl  devoting  her  life  to  a  blind  man's  care  ;  and  if  Maye 
caught  his  look  she  would  turn  a  shade  paler,  and  her  heart 
would  give  a  strong,  convulsive  throb  as  she  turned  to  hide 
her  face  from  him. 

What  is  love  but  contrast  ?  The  adored  one  is  different 
from  all  the  women  one  has  ever  met.  What  a  difference 
there  was  between  Daphne  Preault  and  this  sweet,  pure 
maiden  who  stood  before  him  in  all  the  majestic  solemnity 
of  her  matchless  self-sacrifice  !  He  looked  at  her,  and  his 
look  was  that  of  the  Catholic  to  the  crucified  Christ ;  and 
she  returned  him  a  look  that  seemed,  in  deprecating  his 
adoration,  to  beg  for  mercy  at  his  hands.  It  was  the 
Prince-god  Siddartha  and  the  maiden  Yasodhara  once  more  : 

"  So  their  eyes  mixed,  and  from  the  look  sprang  love  /  " 

And  the  days  passed  by,  and  with  them  weeks,  but  more 
slowly.  Eric  would  absent  himself  for  longer  at  a  time,  and 
Mrs.  Hawleigh's  heart  was  filled  with  a  vague  terror.  Mr. 
Trevanion  was  as  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  struggle  that  was 
proceeding  beneath  his  roof  as  the  blind  boy  himself,  and 
quite  innocently  strove  to  throw  his  son  and  Maye  together, 
that  he  might  appreciate  the  difference  between  this  pure 
English  girl  and  the  delirious  Creole  he  had  fled  from  in 
London.  Of  Daphne,  Eric  had  heard  nothing.  With  some- 
thing like  a  fear  that  he  was  insulting  her  he  had  repaid  to 
her  the  loans  which  he  doubted  whether  she  regarded  as 
such,  and  she  had  answered  never  a  word.  Only  he  re- 
ceived a  line  or  two  from  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp,  who  still 
lingered  in  London,  and  who  told  him  he  had  done  emi- 
nently right  in  leaving  Holland  Street;  that  the  intimacy  of 


240  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHXE. 

Daphne  and  Mahmour6  du  Peyral  showed  little  or  no  signs 
of  abatement ;  and  that  he  began  to  entertain  grave  fears  of 
how  it  might  end. 

And  Maye  ? — Ah,  sirs !  who  shall  pry  into  the  secrets  of 
a  woman's  heart  ?  If  ever  she  allowed  herself  to  think,  it 
was  only  to  add  a  new  incentive  to  her  imagination  in  devis- 
ing new  duties  for  herself  that  should  draw  her  nearer,  should 
make  her  more  necessary,  to  Gabriel ;  and  the  love  that  was 
growing  in  Eric's  heart  would  probably  never  have  found  an 
answer  in  that  which  lay  deep  and  stifled  in  her  own,  had  it 
not  been  that  one  day  Mrs.  Hawleigh  brought  it  before  her 
in  all  its  truth. 

Maye  was  sitting  alone  in  the  little  boudoir,  reading  a 
little  volume  of  verse  which  Eric  had  brought  from  London. 
She  had  just  read  a  poem  which  had  shaken  her  to  the  soul, 
had  terrified  her,  so  close  did  its  possible  application  seem 
to  her  own  case,  when  Mrs.  Hawleigh  entered  the  room,  and, 
seeing  her  sitting — the  open  book  in  her  lap — looking  straight 
before  her,  apparently  plunged  in  a  reverie  so  profound  that 
her  entrance  did  not  disturb  it,  broke  the  silence  by  saying  : 

"  Where  are  Gabriel — and — and  Eric  ?  " 

"  Oh — out  in  the  woods  and  gardens,  as  usual,  "  replied 
Maye ;  "  I  heard  them  go  laughing  over  the  bridge  more 
than  an  hour  ago." 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  without  Eric  ;  it  is 
really  wonderful  the  way.  he  manages  and  takes  care  of  Ga- 
briel, reading  to  him  and  telling  him  stories  by  the  hour, 
and  never  minding  when  he  grows  irritable,  poor  boy ! 
Curious,  is  it  not,  that  he  should  forsake  his  shooting,  and 
his  house-parties  all  over  the  county,  to  stay  here  and  take 
care  of  a  blind  man  and  amuse  his  companions  ?  Very  cred- 
itable, of  course,  but  strange  in  such  a  fashionable  and  rich 
young  man." 

"  Very,  "  replied  Maye,  faintly,  as  she  felt  her  aunt's  eyes 
riveted  on  her  face. 

"  I  hope — for  his  sake  "- — continued  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  com- 


"SPLENDIDE  AIENDAX!"  24! 

ing  close  to  her,  and  laying  her  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder 
— "  and  ours,  my  dear  child,  that  there  is  no  other  attraction 
that  keeps  him  here." 

"  Oh,  auntie,  of  course  not,  "  returned  Maye,  very  hurried- 
ly, and  growing  deathly  pale  as  she  continued,  with  a  visible 
effort ;  "  how  could  you  suggest  such  a  thing  ?  I  respect 
Eric  Trevaniori  for  his  devotion  to  Gabriel,  and  like  all  men, 
it  pleases — it  flatters  him,  to  be  respected  by  a  woman.  It 
flatters  his  vanity.  And  being  such  a  friend  of  Gabriel's,  he 
likes  me  almost  as  a  brother  would.  But  beyond  that — 
nothing — oh,  nothing  ! " 

And  the  girl  rose  and  left  the  room  to  run  out  into  the 
grounds,  where  she  might  be  alone  with  the  soft,  black  cattle, 
and  her  heart-agony. 

Left  by  herself,  Mrs.  Hawleigh  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
window,  and  saw  Maye  run  out  across  the  bridge.  As  she 
settled  to  her  work,  she  said  to  herself : 

"  Well,  I  hope  Eric  is  not  falling  in  love  at  last  with  Maye. 
What  a  calamity  it  would  be  ! — and  yet — poor  child  ! — per- 
haps— well,  well,  Eric  told  me  that,  when  Dr.  Richardson's 
final  report  came,  he  would  accept  some  of  his  country-house 
invitations,  and  go  away  from  here,  so  that  Gabriel  might  get 
accustomed  to  perpetual  darkness,  or  that  he  might  grow 
gradually  well  under  Maye's  gentle  care.  But  it  struck  me 
that  he  didn't  talk  of  leaving  them  together  with  much 
enthusiasm.  Oh  !  why  doesn't  Dr.  Richardson  write  ? — his 
letter  is  days  overdue,  and  the  suspense  is  terrible." 

The  end  was  nearer  than  she  supposed.  It  came  on  the 
following  afternoon. 

Day  after  day  Mrs.  Hawleigh  waited  and  watched  for  the 
arrival  of  the  post.  Daily,  from  the  post-office  in  the  little 
village,  a  decrepid  courier,  known  as  "  the  post  boy,  "  started 
on  his  weary  round,  bringing  in  the  letters  for  Trthwwsthpllgg 
soon  after  lunch ;  and  often,  the  minute  the  meal  was  fin- 
ished, Maye  or  Eric  would  start  for  the  village,  and  get  the 
letters  before  the  post-boy  had  consigned  them  to  his  sack, 
for  delivery  in  their  proper  turn. 
16 


242  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

To-day  Maye  had  undertaken  this  duty  at  Mrs.  Hawleigh's 
earnest  request,  and  her  aunt  anxiously  awaited  her  return. 
And  as  she  waited  she  soliloquised  : 

"  Dr.  Richardson  must  write  to-day,  and  then  we  shall 
know.  Poor  Gabriel  !  I  hope  I  shall  get  as  reconciled  to  his 
affliction  some  day  as  he  is  now ;  but  at  present  there  is 
hardly  a  moment  of  the  day  that  I  can  banish  the  thought 
of  it  from  my  mind,  and  when  I  think  of  it  a  pang  shoots 
through  my  heart  which  is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear. 
Poor  little  Maye,  too  ! — poor  child  ! — poor  child  !  How  long 
Gabriel  was  in  love  before  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  ! — and 
then  that  dreadful  gas-explosion  in  the  studio  which  blinded 
him  !  Dear,  faithful  little  nurse ! — she  has  shown  us  since 
then  what  a  good,  true  girl  she  is ;  what  should  we  have 
done  without  her  ?  Still,  it  seems  hard  that  she  should  be 
condemned  for  the  rest  of  her  fair  young  life  to  taking  care 
of  a  poor,  blind  man,  and  looking  after  his  helplessness. 
Besides,  what  will  they  live  upon  if  this  blindness  proves 
really  incurable  ?  Thank  God  !  I  can  just  support  him  and 
myself;  but  she  has  nothing,  and  he  is  no  richer  than  she. 
I  see  nothing  but  starvation  in  front  of  them." 

At  this  point  her  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  Maye. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  she,  as  the  girl  took  off  her  hat,  "  have 
you  got  the  letters  ?  the  post  has  not  been  here." 

"  No,"  replied  Maye,  "  I  just  missed  them.  That  poor 
old  man  they  call  the  post-boy  had  just  started  on  his  round 
in  the  opposite  direction,  but  I  thought  he  would  have  been 
here  by  now,  for  I  walked  slowly,  and  have  been  doing  a 
little  gardening  since  I  came  in.  Ah,  there !  he  has  just 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  slope.  I'll  run  and  save  him  the 
walk  down  and  up  again." 

Five  minutes  later  she  returned,  exclaiming,  "  Here  you 
are,  auntie  !  Two  letters  for  you,  and  one  big  one  for  Eric. 
Heigho !  there  has  never  been  anybody  to  write  to  me  but 
Gabriel,  and  now  I  write  his  letters  for  him.  I  can't  very 
well  write  love-letters  to  mvself.  Poor  Gabriel  ! — " 


"  SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX  !  "  243 

"  Ah,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  "  here  is  Dr.  Richard- 
son's letter.  This  will  put  us  out  of  our  suspense  about  him. 
Dear  child,  I  can  hardly  hold  it  in  my  hands,  I  am  so  ner- 
vous. Do  you  read  it  to  me.  Oh,  heaven  !  if  I  could  only 
know,  without  opening  it — the  best — or  the  worst !  " 

She  had  given  the  envelope  to  Maye,  and  Maye,  opening 
it,  had  run  her  eyes  over  the  first  lines  of  the  letter.  Her 
face,  as  she  did  so,  became  deathly  white,  and  she  said 
softly : 

"You  must  sit  down,  auntie  darling  ;  I'm  afraid  the  news 
is  not  going  to  be  good.  Shall  I  begin  now  ? — yes  ?  Very 
well." 

And  she  read  as  follows  : 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  HAWLEIGH  : — I  have  had  a  long  and  final 
consultation  with  Dr.  Critchett  since  I  saw  your  son  at  Dart- 
moor, and  I  regret  to  say  that  I  fear  I  must  destroy  even  the 
small  hope  which  I  was  able  to  give  you  then.  There  is  no 
longer  any  doubt  that  the  nerves  of  both  eyes  are  destroyed, 
and,  this  being  the  case,  it  would  be  dealing  unkindly  with 
you  were  I  to  hint  at  the  possibility  of  an  ultimate  recovery. 
You  were  good  enough  to  make  me  the  recipient  of  your 
confidence,  and  to  tell  me  of  your  son's  approaching  mar- 
riage when  this  accident  befell  him." — The  reader's  voice  died 
out  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  resumed  :  "  I  feel  that  this 
must  be  a  terrible  blow  to  his  intended  bride,  for  he  will 
never  be  able  to  see  her  again,  and  I  can  fully  realize  what 
it  will  be  to  you  to  break  this  news  to  her.  Please  accept 
my  sincere  sympathy  with  this  sad  affliction  which  has  fallen 
upon  you,  and  believe  me  to  be,  with  kind  regards, 
Always  very  faithfully  yours, 

E.  CLIFFORD  RICHARDSON. 

As  she  finished  reading,  she  rose,  and,  moving  to  the 
window  leading  into  the  conservatory,  she  leant  against  it, 
struggling  to  suppress  her  emotion.  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  who 
had  burst  into  tears,  came  to  her,  and,  winding  her  arms 


244  THE  PXIA'CESS  DAPHNE. 

about  her,  kissed  her  silently.  Then,  taking  the  letter  from 
her,  she  left  the  room. 

Maye  returned  to  the  seat  she  had  occupied  before,  and 
sat,  dry-eyed — tearless — gazing  into  the  future. 

Blind  ! — hope  was  extinguished — Gabriel  was  incurably 
blind  ! 

And  whilst  she  sat,  the  twilight  deepening  over  her  soul, 
she  heard  a  burst  of  laughter  in  the  conservatory,  and  Eric 
and  Gabriel  stood  on  the  threshold.  The  former,  seeing 
the  girl  sitting  there,  a  wild,  white  look  in  her  eyes,  started 
forward  a  step,  forgetful  of  the  blind  man's  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  old  man  ?  "  exclaimed  Gabriel ; 
"  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  stumble  when  your  two  eyes  have  to 
direct  four  legs.  Is  anybody  here  ? " 

Maye  tried  to  speak,  but  her  parched  tongue  refused  to 
articulate  immediately.  Seeing  the  struggle,  Eric  answered  : 

"  Yes — yes — Miss  Trevethick  is  here." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  answer,  Maye  ?  "  said  Gabriel,  irri- 
tably. "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  play  with  me  as  if  I  were  Caleb 
Deecie  in  '  The  Two  Roses.'  Ah !  I  saw  '  The  Two  Roses.' 
Well,"  he  continued,  recovering  himself,  "you've  missed 
such  a  treat ;  you  should  have  come  out  with  us.  Eric  has 
been  reading  me  some  lovely  poems  out  of  a  new  little  book 
called  'Tares.'  They  are  beautiful — he  must  read  some  to 
you.  And  we  have  had  another  exquisite  sunset.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  it."  And  he  took  up  his  violin,  which  lay  as 
usual  on  the  piano,  and  began  playing  to  himself,  "  Told  in 
the  Twilight,"  the  refrain  of  the  song,  "  Close  to  the  Thresh- 
old." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Eric,  in  an  undertone  to  Maye  ;  "  it's 
hard  to  believe  sometimes  that  he  doesn't  really  see  the 
things  he  describes  to  one.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Trevethick, 
sometimes  he  describes  you  to  me  so  perfectly  that  I  actually 
see  you  before  me — he  delights  in  doing  it.  Really,  if  you 
heard  him  you  would  be  both  interested  and  flattered,  be- 
lieve me." 


"SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX!"  245 

"And  believe  me,  Mr.  Trevanion,"  returned  Maye,  with  a 
wild  effort  at  merriment,  as  she  made  him  a  courtesy,  "  I  am. 
But  seriously,  how  can  we  ever  thank  you  for  your  kindness 
to  him  and  to  us  ?  It  is  only  with  you  that  he  forgets  that 
he  is  blind.  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  be  to  him 
what  you  are  !  " 

What  Eric  would  have  answered  I  know  not;  what  he 
thought  was :  "  And  what  would  I  not  give  to  be  to  her 
what  he  is  !  I  wish  that  I  were  blind  when  I  see  them 
together."  It  was  her  own  thought  repeated. 

They  were  interrupted  by  Gabriel  suddenly  laying  down 
his  violin  and  saying  : 

"  Now,  then,  what  are  you  two  conspiring  about  ?  Don't 
you  know  that  it's  very  rude  to  whisper  before  third  parties  ? 
I  suppose  you  imagine  that  I  don't  count — ah,  no,  I  don't 
mean  that,"  added  he,  as  Maye  went  quickly  to  his  side  and 
touched  him ;  "  I  was  only  chaffing.  Come  !  what  have  you 
been  doing  since  lunch  ? — and  where's  the  mother  ?  " 

"Oh,"  replied  Maye,  turning  cold  and  confused  at  the 
thought  of  the  imminent  explanation,  "  I  walked  down  to 
the  village  because  auntie  wanted  to  geOthe  letters  quickly, 
but  the  post  had  started,  so  I  came  home  and  tied  up  those 
creepers  which  hang  down  and  annoy  you  when  you  come  in 
at  the  conservatory  door — and  then  the  post  came  in — here's 
a  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Trevanion — and  then  the  mother  left 
me  alone  and  went  to  her  room — I  think.  How  far  did  you 
walk  ?  "  concluded  she,  desperately  changing  the  subject. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Gabriel,  not  heeding  her  question,  "was 
mother's  letter  from  Richardson  ?  " 

"  I— I  think  it  was." 

"  Did  mother  tell  you  what  was  in  the  letter  ? "  pursued 
the  blind  man,  with  a  strong  effort  to  appear  calm.  "  Rich- 
ardson was  to  write  and  say  how  soon  I  shall  be  able  to  see 
again." 

"  No,"  replied  Maye,  with  forced  prevarication,  "  she  did 
not  tell  me  what  was  in  the  letter." 


246  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  I  must  go  to  her  at  once — take  me  to  her,  Maye  ;  "  and 
the  two  disappeared. 

Left  alone,  Eric  drew  his  letter  from  his  pocket.  It  was 
directed  in  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp's  characteristic  fist, 
and  was  a  bulky  letter  enclosed  in  a  foolscap  envelope. 
It  was  with  a  vague,  sickening  feeling  of  apprehension  that 
he  tore  it  open  and  brought  to  light  a  closely  written  manu- 
script, headed  "  The  Narrative  of  the  Coloured  Woman  Cly- 
temnestra"  and  a  letter  from  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp. 
The  latter  was  short,  and  to  the  point.  It  read  as  follows  : 

"  MY  DEAR  TREVANION  : — Miss  Daphne  Preault  is  dead. 
The  circumstances  attending  her  death  constitute,  I  fear, 
a  horrible  tragedy,  of  which  the  details  are  contained  in  the 
narrative  I  have  compiled  for  you,  from  the  account  given 
by  the  coloured  woman  who  attended  upon  Miss  Preault  and 
witnessed  her  death.  To  that  narrative  I  have  nothing  to 
add,  save  that  I  was  able  to  certify  that  death  ensued  from 
naturally-produced  asphyxia,  in  which  certificate  a  singularly 
ignorant  practitioner,  who  announced  himself  to  me  as  Miss 
Preault's  regular  medical  attendant,  concurred,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  the  case.  I  am  making  arrangements  for  the  return 
of  Clytemnestra  to  New  Orleans ;  she  is  amply  provided  for 
under  the  will  of  Miss  Preault,  the  bulk  of  whose  property 
is  bequeathed  to  you.  Finally,  as  regards  Madame  du 
Peyral,  if  it  became  necessary  at  any  future  time,  I  could 
certify  that  she  was  mentally  deranged,  and  not  responsible 
for  her  actions  ;  in  any  case,  under  the  circumstances,  the 
death  of  Miss  Preault — certainly  unpremeditated — might 
have  been  accidental.  Madame  du  Peyral  left  England  the 
same  night  as  the  tragedy  occurred.  I  forbore  to  enquire 
whither  she  was  bound — possibly  to  her  original  destination 
in  Greece.  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  necessary  for  us  to 
ascertain  ;  she  will  certainly  not  return.  I  leave,  myself,  for 
Paris  this  evening.  Should  you  wish  to  communicate  with 
me,  a  letter  addressed,  care  of  His  Excellency,  the  American 
Minister,  will  reach  me  safely. 

A  word    in   conclusion,  in   case   we   should   never  meet 


"SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX!"  247 

again.  You  and  I  have  been  the  witnesses  of,  and  to  a 
certain  extent  actors  in,  one  of  the  most  startling,  nay 
terrific,  psychological  dramas  that  it  has  ever  been  my  fate 
to  encounter  in  all  my  experience  in  mental  science.  I  shall 
prepare  a  report  thereon,  which  I  shall  send  you  for 
signature  ;  any  details  that  you  can  add  will  be  valuable. 
I  think  we  had  better  keep  our  own  counsel  in  the  matter, 
closely  and  completely,  until  the  story  of  Daphne  Preault 
and  Paul  du  Peyral  shall  have  become  a  chapter  of  forgotten 
history.  I  wish  you  health  and  prosperity,  and  shall  remain 
always,  my  dear  Trevanion, 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

SCHUYLER  VAN    BOOMKAMP. 

White  to  the  lips,  Eric  Trevanion  looked  from  the  letter 
he  held  in  his  hand  to  the  manuscript,  which  had  fallen  to 
the  floor.  He  picked  it  up  and  hastily  glanced  through  the 
sheets  until  he  reached  the  last  page.  Then  his  eyes  di- 
lated with  horror,  his  pallor  increased,  and  he  felt  as 
though  he  would  have  fainted,  had  he  not  fled  forth 
into  the  air.  There  his  senses  seemed  to  return  to  him. 
Composing  himself  with  a  violent  effort,  he  returned  into 
the  house,  and,  going  to  his  own  room,  he  locked  away 
carefully  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp's  letter  and  manuscript 
in  his  dispatch-box. 

And  then  a  great  sense  of  misery  and  loneliness  came 
over  him,  and  flinging  himself  onto  a  sofa,  he  cried  aloud 
in  the  agony  of  his  soul :  "  Oh,  God  !  and  is  this  the  end  ? 
Is  my  life  utterly  wasted? — utterly  spoilt  ?  Blind — blind  fool 
that  I  have  been  ! — Had  I  but  known  where  my  happiness 
lay — had  I  not  been  stupefied  by  my  ghastly  folly — you 
might  have  loved  me — Maye,  my  darling,  my  pure,  beautiful 
love !  And  now — what  is  left  for  me  ?  Ashes — ashes !  I  am 
not  fit  to  enter  your  presence — and  yet — I  have  fancied — 
but  no,  she  is  pledged  to  Gabriel — God  forbid  that  I  should 
break  his  heart — should  wreck  his  life  more  completely  than 
it  is  wrecked  already !  I  will  go  to  her — perhaps  the  sight  of 


248  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

her  sweet,  true  face  will  chase  this  nightmare  from  my  brain 
— may  save  me,  after  all,  in  spite  of  myself/'  And  then  the 
lines  recurred  to  him — this  time  with  a  new  hope  in  every 
word  : 

"  I  hold  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things  !  " 

And  so  Eric  Trevanion  sought  once  more  the  little  boudoir, 
where  he  found  Maye  alone  in  the  twilight,  standing  at  the 
window  looking  out  into  the  deepening  shadows  across  the 
moat. 

As  he  entered  the  room  she  turned  quickly.  The  evening 
light  slanted  across  his  drawn,  white  face,  and  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Mr.  Trevanion — Eric — you  have  had  bad  news  !  " 

"  Bad  news ! — bad  news  ? — I  wonder  whether  it  be  bad. 
Terrible  news — yes  !  but  bad ! — I  wonder — ?  " 

"Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"  Daphne  Pre'ault  is  dead." 

"  Dead !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  dreadful ! — how  did  she  die  ? — tell  me  about  it." 

"  She  died  in  one  of  her  curious  fainting-fits.  She  had 
had  many  of  them  in  the  past  year,  and  since  her  serious 
illness  a  short  while  ago  she  has  never  been  her  old  self." 

"  I  am  so  sorry — Eric." 

"  Nay,  do  not  be  sorry  for  her,  or  for  me,  Miss  Treve- 
thick.  Perhaps  it  is  better  thus." 

"  But — you  loved  her  so." 

"  Loved  her  ? — did  I  love  her  ? — no  ;  I  think — God  help 
me  ! — that  I  was  bewitched,  possessed — mad  !  " 

"  But  surely — " 

"  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  it — I  beg  of  you.  It  is  all  too 
sudden,  too  ghastly.  Let  us  speak  of  something  else." 

There  was  a  moment  of  deathly  stillness,  and  then  Maye, 
womanlike,  recovering  herself  the  first,  said  : 


"  SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX  !  "  249 

"  What  are  these  poems  that  Gabriel  speaks  about,  that 
you  have  been  reading  to  him  ?  " 

"  A  little  volume  by  a  young  author,"  answered  he,  draw- 
ing it  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke.  "  They  are  light,  of 
course  ;  but  some  of  them  are  very  pretty.  It  has  been  lying 
about ;  have  you  not  read  them  ?  " 

"  No — I  took  it  up  yesterday,  but  I  was  interrupted.  Will 
you  not  read  me  one,  as  Gabriel  suggested  ? " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  No,  do  not  ring  :  there  is  light 
enough  here  at  the  window.  What  sort  of  poem  shall  I 
read  you  ?  " 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  on  where  you  left  off  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  I  was  just  going  to  read  this  one,  when  it 
struck  me  it  was  getting  chilly  for  Gabriel,  and  we  got  up  to 
come  home.  It  is  called  "  Nachtstuck"  and  runs  thus  : 

"  1  will  lie  still,  here  in  the  shadow,  and  turn  my  face  to  the  wall ; 
Mine  eyes  shall  behold  no  other  since  they  may  not  mirror  you,    * 
Since  I  may  not  hear  your  voice  mine  ears  shall  be  sealed  too, 
And  my  lips  are  mute  to  all ! 

''  But  you — oh,  my  fair,  sweet  love,  you  must  walk  far  afield,  in  the  light, 
Not  quite  forgetting  my  soul  that  aches  in  the  darkness  here, 
Though  Time's  soft,  dead  hand  puts  me  from  you,  each  day  less  dear 
Grow  the  tender  memories  of  night. 

"  And  that  shall  be  well ! — I— am  only  a  wraith  from  the  fast, 
No  more  may  my  glad  arms  cradle  your  drooped  gold  head, 
To  you — and  because  to  you,  to  all — am  I  henceforth  dead. 
[And you  knew  not  that  kiss  was  our  last  /] 

"  And  that  is  well  too  ! — to  the  last  was  otir  summer  sweet, 
To  the  very  end  no  pale  cloud  obscured  our  exquisite  days, 
Our  sun,  for  the  last  time,  set  in  a  warm,  wild  blaze, 
Making  earth  and  heaven  meet ! 

"  False  ?  Ah,  no!  hardly  that — dear  heart, you  are  not  to  blame ; 

[  Who  carps  at  the  sun,  or  the  transient  rain,  or   the  fleeting  evening 

dew  ?  ] 

And  I  cavil  not  at  your  fair  young  soul  that  would  fain,  but  could  not 
be  true, 

And  I  love  you,  aye,  the  same. 


250  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"  That  you  do  not  ask  it,  I  know,  and  I  would  not,  alas  !  but  must 

Lie  here  chained  and  tortured  by  memory  forever  ;  but  you,  dear,  are 

free  : 

And  the  welcomest  gift  that  this  wide,  blank  universe  holds  for  me 
Is  a  little  handful  of  dust!  " 

As  he  read,  his  voice  grew  lower  and  more  tender. 
Every  word  ate  into  her  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  Gabriel  him- 
self was  speaking,  and  it  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  The 
spell  of  the  words  lay  over  Eric  too,  and  he  realized  every 
word  and  its  meaning.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  they  would 
have  heard  the  slight  noise  that  Gabriel  had  made  as  he 
raised  himself  on  one  elbow,  to  listen  as  he  lay  upon  the 
couch  in  the  conservatory.  He  had  come  in  from  the 
garden  just  as  Eric  entered  the  room — they  had  not  heard 
him — and  now,  with  a  blind  man's  acuteness  of  ear,  not  a 
word  that  they  had  said  had  escaped  him. 

Even  now  he  might  have  made  his  presence  known  to 
them,  but  that,  as  Eric's  voice  ceased,  Maye  buried  her 
head  in  her  hands,  and  moaning,  "  Oh  !  Gabriel ! "  burst 
into  an  agony  of  tears.  Gabriel  waited  and  listened — 
hardly  daring  to  breathe  in  the  gloom  of  the  conservatory. 

It  was  Eric  who  spoke  first  within  the  room : 

"  Ah,  Miss  Trevethick,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  pained 
you,  Maye !  This  poem  has  touched  you — then  it  speaks 
to  you  as  it  speaks  to  me.  Poor  Gabriel ! — of  us  three  I  do 
not  know  whom  I  should  pity  most.  You  do  not  answer. 
Alas !  that  I  should  speak  so,  when  every  prompting  of 
honour  urges  me  to  keep  silent.  I  have  no  right  to  speak, 
as  my  heart  bids  me,  to  the  affianced  wife  of  my  best  friend 
— least  of  all  when  he  is  afflicted,  helpless,  as  poor  Gabriel 
is,  but — I  am  going  away  now,  and  I  cannot  go  without  a 
word." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Trevanion — I  beg  of  you — " 

"Ah!  don't  stop  me  now — I  am  leaving  you,  perhaps 
forever.  Every  day  that  I  have  been  here  I  have  been 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  truth,  that  I  love  you — aye  ! 
love  you  more  than  words  can  say — than  eyes  can  speak  ; 


"  SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX!  "  251 

and  that  when  I  leave  you — as  leave  you  I  must — poor 
Gabriel's  blindness  will  have  fallen  on  my  soul.  God  help 
me,  for  I  am  utterly  helpless  myself." 

"  My  duty — my  duty — "  began  the  girl,  but  he  interrupted 
her: 

"  Yes,  your  duty  and  mine  ;  but  when  I  think  of  your  fair 
young  life  tied  to  his  in  one  ceaseless  continuance  of  care 
for  his  infirmity,  even  as  you  have  tended  him  hitherto  ; 
when  I  think  that  his  eyes  can  never  see  you,  that  you  must 
be  chained  for  all  your  life  to  the  side  of  a  man  whose  only 
knowledge  of  you  is — memory — the  remembrance  of  your 
beauty,  which  cannot  give  brilliancy,  for  one  moment,  to  the 
darkness  before  his  eyes,  my  heart  is  ready  to  burst.  Ah  !  " 
he  continued,  desperately,  losing  himself  in  the  torrent  of 
his  words,  "  let  me  go  to  him  and  implore  his  forgiveness 
for  myself,  for  us.  Why  should  we  wreck  three  lives — as 
wrecked  they  must  be — without  doing  any  good  by  the 
sacrifice  ?  I  cannot  believe  that  I  have  been  mistaken — 
that  you  care  nothing  for  me — oh  !  come  to  me,  and  be  the 
light  of  my  life." 

He  had  fallen  on  his  knees  by  her  side,  burying  his  head 
in  his  hands  in  the  agony  of  his  despair — and  she  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  his  shoulder,  as  she  answered  him  in  a  cold, 
miserable  voice  : 

"  Hush,  Eric  !  hush !  I  can  never  be  the  light  of  your 
life,  if,  indeed,  that  might  be,  for  I  have  promised  to  be  the 
light  of  his.  You  have  spoken  truly — he  will  never  see  me 
— you — any  of  us,  again ;  the  letter  from  Dr.  Richardson  has 
destroyed  our  last  hope — Gabriel  is  incurably  blind,  and 
this,  if  nothing  else,  makes  my  path  clear  before  me." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  stayed  there,  on  his 
knees,  gazing  into  her  soul,  as  she  pronounced  the  death- 
sentence  of  their  love. 

"We  must  not  misunderstand  one  another,  dear  friend," 
continued  she,  "but  I  would  gladly  have  spared  both  my- 
self and  you  this  full  knowledge  of  the  truth.  I  am,  as  you 


252  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

know,  without  relations,  without  friends,  save  for  Mrs. 
Hawleigh  and  Gabriel ;  without  means  of  subsistence  save 
what  I  can  gain  by  my  own  work.  Auntie  rescued  me  five 
years  ago  from  absolute  penury,  and  whilst  I  lived  with  her, 
Gabriel  loved  me  in  silence — during  all  that  wear}'  time. 
It  was  only  when  he  became  famous  and  was  becoming 
rich  that  he  asked  me  to  link  my  life  with  his  ;  and  I  con- 
sented. What  else  could  I  do  ? — besides — I  loved  him  very 
dearly — though  not  as  I  could  love.  Hush !  do  not  speak  ! 
His  accident,  as  you  know,  has  destroyed  all  his  prospects  ; 
would  you  have  me  desert  him  now  ?  No,  no  !  We  must  go 
away  from  here — for  I  own  to  you,  Eric,  that  you  have 
stirred  a  deeper  feeling  within  my  heart  than  I  knew  existed 
there.  Ah !  why  should  I  pretend  ignorance  of  my  own 
weakness  ? — it  is  love  !  But  you  are  his  friend  and  mine — 
are  you  not  ?  Help  me,  then,  by  your  example,  to  do  my 
duty  to  our  poor,  blind  Gabriel." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  Eric,  rising  to  his  feet,  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it  as  he  would  have  done  homage  to  a 
saint.  Then  he  said,  controlling  his  voice  with  a  violent 
effort : 

"Then — it  is  all  over.  Thank  you  for  this  grand  lesson 
you  have  taught  me,  and  may  you  be  as  happy  in  your  new 
life  as  you  deserve.  Forgive  me  for  what  is  past,  dear,  and 
forget,  if  you  can,  that  I  ever  asked  you  to  be  untrue  to 
your  promise  to  Gabriel.  I  leave  here  to-morrow.  Think 
of  me  kindly,  if  you  can,  sometimes.  For  myself  I  cannot 
regret  this  trial,  for  it  will  make  my  life  better,  purer,  to 
have  loved  you  as  I  have  come  to  do.  See — I  will  tear 
this  poem  from  this  little  book  ;  and  he — must  never  know  ! 
Perhaps  we  shall  never  meet  again.  In  that  case — good- 
bye— God  in  heaven  bless  you,  Maye  Trevethick." 

He  kissed  her  hand  once  more,  and  the  next  moment  he 
was  gone.  The  silence  that  he  left  behind  him  was  broken 
by  a  tiny  noise  in  the  conservatory.  Maye's  heart  gave  a 
violent  bound,  and  for  an  instant  she  seemed  to  stifle  ;  then 


"  SPL  END  IDE  MEND  A  X!"  253 

she  went  into  the  conservatory — it  was  empty — and  flinging 
herself  upon  Gabriel's  lounge,  she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

The  dinner  at  Trthwwsthpllgg  that  night  was  a  silent 
meal — save  that  Gabriel  made  a  superhuman  effort  to 
appear  gay  as  usual.  He  and  Eric  kept  up  a  cross-fire  of 
conversation,  in  which  Maye  alone  detected  the  false  note. 
When  it  was  ended,  and  the  Trevanions,  father  and  son,  and 
Gabriel  had  joined  Mrs.  Hawleigh  and  Maye  in  the  little 
boudoir,  Gabriel  said  : 

"  Are  we  all  here  ? — yes  ?  That  is  good — I  have  some- 
thing very  serious  to  say  to  you  all.  Yes,  mother,"  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Hawleigh,  who  came  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
"  it  must  be  said  sooner  or  later,  as  I  told  you.  Sit  down 
and  keep  silence,  all  of  you,  please,  till  I  have  done. 
Maye ! — mother  has  been  reading  to  me  Dr.  Richardson's 
letter,,  and  it  has  decided  me  to  say  what  I  have  been  on 
the  verge  of  saying  to  you — for  many  weeks — for  many 
weeks.  You  now  know  that  I  can  never  recover  my  sight, 
that  I  can  never  again  see  the  landscapes  in  which  I  have 
revelled,  the  flowers  and  animals  which  I  have  loved  ;  can 
never  again  see  you,  save  as  the  beautiful  model  whose 
features  I  fixed  upon  my  canvas  and  my  brain  last,  before 
my  light  became  a  great  darkness.  I  am  poor — very  poor 
—and  blind.  That,  I  know,  makes  no  difference  to  you — 
but,  alas  !  this  physical  infirmity  has  altered  my  whole  being 
— in  a  moment,  as  it  were — in  a  moment — and  I  should  be 
doing  you  a  grievous  wrong  were  I  to  conceal  my  altered 
feelings  from  you  and  marry  you  notwithstanding.  Hush! 
do  not  speak — I  beg  of  you.  Only  forgive  me.  I  cannot 
marry  you  to  make  your  fair  young  life  one  of  slavery,  even 
if  I  would  do  so;  and  you  must  not  think  me  fickle  or 
untrue  ;  it  is  my  infirmity — my  infirmity,  that  has  altered 
my  whole  life." 

Maye  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by  his  side,  and  put  her 
arms  about  him : 


254  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

"I  cannot  leave  you  like  this,  Gabriel — I  cannot  leave 
you  !  "  she  said. 

"  I  know — I  know,  dear,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  it  must  be  so. 
Eric — your  voice,  when  you  have  spoken  to  me  of  Maye, 
has  told  me  far  more  than  your  words  have  said — we  blind 
men  have  keen  intuitions  and  infallible  instincts,  you  know  ; 
will  you  guide  for  me  this  child-friend  of  mine  through  her 
pure,  sweet  life  ? — and  the  knowledge  of  your  happiness  will 
be  a  light  to  my  life  which  has  become  so  dark." 

Eric  Trevanion  rose  in  his  turn  : 

"  Gabriel — dear  old  man,"  he  said,  "  you  must  not  make 
this  sacrifice — we  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Yes,  old  friend,"  he  replied,  "  it  must  be — it  is  better 
so.  Mother,  dear — we  shall  not  be  separated,  after  all,  you 
and  I.  We  will  go  back  to  the  old  studio,  to  our  old  life 
and  my  music,  and  Eric  and  Maye  will  come  sometimes  to 
tell  me  of  the  world  they — see — around  them." 

Splendide  mendax  ! 


EPILOGUE. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  the  day  that  the  story  told 
in  the  foregoing  pages  was  closed  with  Gabriel  Hawleigh's 
magnificent  lie.  The  Hawleighs,  mother  and  son,  are  both 
dead.  Gabriel  Hawleigh  died  in  Naples — or  more  accu- 
rately speaking,  at  Sorrento,  whither  he  had  fled  in  search 
of  quiet,  and  recovery  from  a  malarial  fever  caught  in  Rome 
— but  not  before  his  fame  as  a  musician  had  rung  from  one 
end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  as  would  have  rung  his  fame  as 
a  painter,  had  not  his  career  been  cut  short  by  his  accident. 
There  lingers  probably  in  the  memory  of  many  of  my 
readers  the  fame  of  a  violinist  who  stirred  the  heart-strings 
of  his  audiences  as  no  one  has  stirred  them  since  Paganini 
and  Sainton  stayed  their  magic  fingers  under  the  grasp  of 
death.  He  was  a  miracle — for  he  was  blind.  And  under 
the  nom  d'artiste  which  he  adopted  and  inscribed  indelibly 
upon  the  roll-call  of  glory,  only  a  few  people  in  England 
recognized  Gabriel  Hawleigh  the  painter. 

His  mother  was  with  him  to  the  last,  but  she  did  not  long 
survive  her  son.  She  died  in  the  old  studio-house  in  Hol- 
land Street — shall  I  say  of  a  broken  heart  ?  Now-a-days  I 
fear  to  say  it,  for,  now-a-days,  hearts  do  not  break. 

Dick  Lindsay  married  Eva  Easton,  but  Sylvia  never  mar- 
ried anybody  :  she  lives  on  the  Schiavoni  in  Venice,  and 
paints  pictures  that  are  eagerly  sought  for  in  the  index  of 
the  Academy  catalogue.  Bernard  Rawlinson  is  a  great 
actor  now,  and  never  paints  at  all  ;  Gerome  Markham  still 
individualizes  the  pages  of  a  leading  comic  paper,  and 
dresses  five  times  a  day — he  does  not  look  an  hour  older 
than  he  did  the  day  on  which  I  first  saw  him  ;  and  Mr. 
Charles  Sturton-Baker  has  disappeared.  There  was  a  little 
difficulty  about  the  prospectus  of  a  joint-stock  company, 

255 


256  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

which  brought  about  his  enforced  seclusion  for  a  few  years 
at  the  expense  of  Her  Majesty's  government.  When  he 
had  served  his  term  he  sought  fresh  fields  for  his  peculiar 
industry  in  the  United  States,  exchanging  them  subse- 
quently, owing  to  circumstances  over  which  unfortunately 
he  had  control,  for  the  pleasant  security  of  Canada. 

He  did  not  marry  Parthenia  Van  Baulk'em. 

That  young  lady  came  over  to  England  to  inspect  Mr. 
Charles  Sturton-Baker's  position  "  on  the  ground  " — so  to 
speak,  and  finding  that  the  swain  had  given  to  an  airy  noth- 
ing, a  local  habitation  and  a  name,  returned  to  Fifth  Avenue 
the  betrothed  of  Mr.  Murray  Hill.  They  were  married  in 
the  spring  following — and  people  say  that  he  beats  her. 

It  was  only  last  summer  that  I  went  down  to  Cornwall, 
to  rest  at  Trthwwsthpllgg  Manor,  at  the  conclusion  of  a  more 
than  ordinarily  hard  spell  of  work,  and  gave  that  terrible 
polymonosyllable  to  my  publishers  as  my  address  for  a 
couple  of  months.  The  Autocrat  of  Trthwwsthpllgg  is  a 
grand  old  gentleman,  autocrat  now  only  in  name,  for  the 
reins  of  government  have  fallen  to  Eric,  who  is  the  typical 
young  country  squire,  very  proud  of  his  place  and  his 
horses,  and  on  his  knees  to  his  wife,  who  has  not  aged  an 
hour — I  swear! — since  I  first  met  her  in  Holland  Street. 
And  in  the  early  morning  I  used  to  be  awakened  by  a 
chorus  of  shrill  shouts  from  the  lawn  beneath  my  windows, 
proceeding  from  the  throats  of  Eric's  children,  to  wit,  his 
daughter  Dorothy,  a  young  woman  of  decided  and  advanced 
opinions,  and  her  twin  brothers,  Eric  and  Gabriel,  whom  she 
rules  with  a  rod  of  iron.  They  are  her  juniors  by  a  couple 
of  years,  and  it  is  an  understood  thing  that  Dorothy  is  to 
make  haste  and  catch  me  up,  and  then  we  are  to  be  married  ! 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone  with  Eric  in  his  armoury, 
dignified  by  the  name  of  "  study,"  when  our  conversation 
turned  upon  the  old  colony  in  Holland  Street,  on  the 
Hawleighs,  and  on  "  the  Princess  Daphne."  The  old 
wound  had  long  healed  over,  so  I  knew  that  I  could  ap- 
proach the  subject  with  impunity. 


EPILOGUE.  257 

"  By-the-bye,"  I  said,  "  what  a  dreadfully  sudden  thing 
Daphne  Pre'ault's  death  was  ! — did  you  ever  hear  any  of  the 
details  ? " 

"Yes— all  of  them." 

"  How  did  she  die  ? " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Eric,  very  gravely,  "  the  death  of 
Daphne  Preault  was  one  of  the  most  horrible  tragedies  that 
the  world  has  ever  witnessed:  Fortunately  for  everybody 
concerned  she  had  been  attended  by  Schuyler  Van  Boom- 
kamp,  the  American  psychologist,  and  he  arranged  matters." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  exclaimed ;  "  I  never 
thought  there  was  any  mystery.  I  always  understood  that 
Miss  Preault  was  subject  to  fits  of  some  kind,  and  that  in 
one  of  them  she  had  died." 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Eric  Trevanion,  not  answering  my  re- 
mark, "  I  will  place  in  your  hands  a  complete  account  of 
her  death.  It  reached  me  and  I  read  it  the  day  that  I  pro- 
posed to  Maye,  my  wife.  From  that  day  to  this  it  has  lain 
undisturbed." 

So  saying,  he  turned  to  a  dispatch-box  that  lay  on  the 
table,  and,  unlocking  it,  he  took  thence  a  few  sheets  of 
paper,  folded  up,  and  getting  yellow  with  age.  These  he 
placed  into  my  hands.  I  unfolded  them  and  read  as  follows  : 

THE  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  COLOURED  WOMAN  CLYTEMNESTRA  : 
GATHERED  FROM  HER  LIPS  BY  SCHUYLER  VAN  BOOM- 
KAMP,  M.D.,  LEYDEN,  PARIS,  AND  N.  Y. 

I  was  born  in  the  service  of  the  late  Victor  Preault  of 
New  Orleans,  on  the  Belles  Fontaines  plantation,  Louisiana, 
U.  S.  A.  After  his  death  I  came  to  England  with  Miss 
Daphne  Preault,  and  have  been  with  her  all  the  time  she  has 
been  in  this  country.  Madame  du  Peyral  began  coming  to 
the  house  early  in  this  summer,  and  she  and  Miss  Pre'ault 
seemed  very  much  attached  to  one  another.  Whenever  Mr. 
Trevanion  was  not  here,  Madame  du  Peyral  used  to  come 
and  remain  with  Miss  Pre'ault.  One  day  Madame  du  Peyral 
17 


258  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

brought  her  things  and  came  to  stay  in  the  house.  The 
next  day  Mr.  Trevanion  left  London.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since. 

Madame  du  Peyral  was  here  about  three  weeks ;  she 
occupied  the  room  adjoining  Miss  Preault's  on  the  first  floor, 
and  connected  with  it  by  a  door.  They  used  generally  to 
sit  up  talking  late  into  the  night  in  one  room  or  the  other, 
and  in  the  morning,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  used  to  carry  up  the 
breakfast.  Often  Madame  du  Peyral  would  be  in  Miss  Pre- 
ault's room,  and  then  I  used  to  carry  the  chocolate  in  there 
for  both.  A  few  days  after  Mr.  Trevanion  had  left,  a  letter 
came  from  him,  and  I  took  it  up  to  Miss  Daphne  on  her 
tray.  Madame  du  Peyral  was  there,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  talking,  and  the  moment  she  saw  the  letter  she  tried 
to  snatch  it.  Miss  Daphne  was  too  quick  for  her,  and  she 
did  not  get  it.  I  often  heard  them  speak  of  it  afterwards, 
Madame  du  Peyral  always  wanting  to  see  it,  and  Miss 
Daphne  never  showing  it  to  her. 

The  last  morning  before  Madame  du  Peyral  left  the  house 
I  took  up  the  chocolate  as  usual,  and  as  I  went  into  the 
room  I  thought  I  heard  their  voices  raised  as  if  in  anger, 
and  when  I  got  in,  Miss  Daphne  was  lying  in  bed  looking 
very  pale,  and  I  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  have  one  of 
the  fainting-fits  she  used  to  have.  Madame  du  Peyral  was 
sitting  on  the  bed  by  her  side,  looking  at  her — her  face  was 
red,  and  she  had  a  dangerous  look  in  her  eyes  that 
frightened  me.  The  bed-clothes  were  disarranged,  and  the 
two  looked  as  if  they  had  been  struggling.  Neither  spoke 
whilst  I  was  in  the  room,  and  instead  of  going  out  again  by 
the  door  onto  the  landing,  I  went  into  Madame  du  Peyral's 
room,  intending  to  arrange  it  a  little,  and  to  be  within  call. 
In  a  moment,  however,  I  heard  footsteps,  and  Madame  du 
Peyral,  coming  in  by  the  connecting  door,  said  : 

"  You  need  not  arrange  my  room  yet — wait  till  I  am 
dressed." 

I  went  out,  but  came  back  as  soon  as  I  heard  them  talk- 
ing together  again,  and  listened  at  the  door,  which  had  been 


EPILOGUE.  359 

left  ajar  between  the  two  rooms.  Madame  du  Peyral  was 
saying : 

"  Why  won't  you  let  me  see  it  ?  I  am  sure  there  can  be 
nothing  to  conceal.  I  know  Mr.  Trevanion  dislikes  me, 
and  that  if  he  mentioned  me  at  all,  it  was  unpleasantly." 

"  But  he  didn't  mention  you  at  all,  Mahmoure — what  a 
child  you  are  !  "  said  Miss  Daphne. 

"  Not  such  a  child,"  she  said,  "  as  to  be  deceived  in  that 
ridiculous  way.  I  know  what  was  in  the  letter — he  wants  to 
make  peace  with  you,  and  he  wants  you  to  give  me  up. 
Well,  it  is  very  simple  for  you  to  choose.  You  are  tired  of 
me." 

"Don't  be  so  silly,"  was  the  answer;  "  there  isn't  a  word 
of  truth  in  what  you  say  !  " 

Then  I  peeped  through  the  door-crack,  and  saw  Miss 
Preault  take  Madame  in  her  arms.  The  latter  struggled 
away,  exclaiming : 

"  No — you  are  tired  of  me." 

"  I  am  not." 

"  Then  give  me  the  letter." 

"I  can't." 

And  then  Madame  du  Peyral  began  to  cry. 

"  Come,  Mahmoure,"  said  Miss  Daphne,  "  you  excite 
yourself  too  much.  You  are  overtaxing  your  strength.  We 
carry  our  gossip  too  late  into  the  night.  Even  /am  not  so 
strong  as  I  was.  Every  night  I  determine  to  send  you  to 
bed,  and  not  let  you  sit  here  and  chatter;  but  then  we  for- 
get all  about  the  time.  I  have  been  feeling  unlike  myself 
for  days,  and  this  morning  I  have  a  dreadful  headache. 
Come,  stroke  my  temples  for  me,  dear." 

Madame  du  Peyral's  face  was  turned  in  my  direction, 
and  as  she  leaned  over  Miss  Daphne,  the  same  horrible, 
frightening  look  came  into  it.  I  could  see  that  Miss  Pre- 
ault's  eyes  were  shut.  Then  the  other  got  up  and,  creeping 
across  the  room,  pulled  down  the  blind,  and  came  back  to 
the  bed,  where  she  lay  down  and  began  passing  her  fingers 
across  Miss  Prdault's  forehead  and  through  her  hair. 


2<5o  THE  PRINCESS  DAPHNE. 

Miss  Daphne  did  not  move,  and  gradually  Madame  du 
Peyral  drew  herself  into  a  crouching,  sitting  position,  watch- 
ing, watching,  watching,  as  she  played  with  the  other 
woman's  hair.  Suddenly  Miss  Daphne  gave  a  gasp  and 
struggled  a  little.  Madame,  seeing  her  move,  flung  herself 
suddenly  upon  her,  and  gripped  her  round  the  throat — I  did 
not  dare  to  stir — I  was  frozen  with  terror. 

Then  she  began  to  mutter  rapidly  and  incoherently  in  a 
harsh,  forced  voice. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  said,  "you  shall  not  die — I  will  keep  your 
life  in  you ;  it  shall  not  escape  ;  "  and  she  still  held  Miss 
Daphne's  throat. 

The  latter  moved  a  little,  then  a  little  more.  Then  her 
movements  grew  weaker  again,  and  at  last  she  lay  quite  still. 
Then  Madame  du  Peyral  stooped  lower  and  began  kissing 
her.  I  went  into  the  room.  As  I  entered,  she  looked  up 
like  a  wild  animal  just  going  to  spring,  and  cried,  "Go 
away  ! — how  dare  you  come  in  here  ? " 

I  was  terrified,  and  put  on  my  things  and  ran  for  the 
American  doctor  who  has  been  here  sometimes.  When  he 
came  he  told  me  Miss  Daphne  was  dead. 

I  say  that  Madame  du  Peyral  killed  her. 

Her 

CLYTEM    X    NESTRA. 

Mark 

At  this  point  the  manuscript  was  signed  with  the  mark  of 
Clytemnestra,  witnessed  by  Schuyler  Van  Boomkamp.  A 
few  words  were  added  by  the  doctor  to  the  effect  that  Miss 
Daphne  Preault  had  died  of  a  sudden  cerebral  congestion 
produced  by  over-excitement,  and  the  narrative  closed  with 
his  signature  and  the  date. 

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WORKS  OP  ADVENTURE. 

Adventures  Among  The  Indians.     By  W.  H.  Kingston. 
Beauchampe.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Border  Beagles.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Cast  Up  By  The  Sea.     By  Sir  Samuel  Baker. 
Charlemont.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Confession.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Deep  Down.     By  R.  M.  Ballantyne. 
Deerslayer  (The)    By  Fenimore  Cooper. 
Don  Quixote.    By  Miguel  Cervantes. 
Erling,  The  Bold.     ByR.  M.  Ballantyne. 
Eutaw.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Fire  Brigade,  The.     By  R.  M.  Ballantyne. 
Forayers  (The).     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Giant  Raft  (The).     By  Jules  Verne. 
Guy  Rivera.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Hunting  In  The  Great  West.     By  G.  O.  Shields. 
Katharine  Walton .     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Last  of  The  Mohicans  (The).     By  Fenimore  Cooper. 
Mellichampe.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Mysterious  Island,  (The.)    By  Jules  Verne. 
Partisan  (The) .     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms . 
Pathfinder  (The.)    By  Fenimore  Cooper. 

Perilous  Adventures,  By  Land  and  Sea.     By  John  Frost,  LL.D 
Rifle  and  Hound  In  Ceylon.    By  Sir  Samuel  Baker. 
Richard  Hurdis.     ByW.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Robinson  Crusoe.     By  Daniel  Defoe. 
Scout  (The).     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Secret  Dispatch  (The) .     By  James  Grant. 
Southward  Ho!    By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Spy  (The).     By  Fenimore  Cooper. 
Swiss  Family  Robinson.     By  Wyss  &  Montolieu. 
Xhrilling  Scenes  Among  The  Indians.     ByT.  M.  Newson. 
Four  of  The  World  In  Eighty  Days .     By  Jules  Verne . 
Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  The  Sea.     By  Jules  Verne. 
Vasconselos.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Woodcraft.     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Wigwam  and  Cabin  (The).     By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 
Young  Foresters  (The).     By  W.  H.  Kingston. 
Yemassee.    By  W.  Gilmore  Simms. 

11 


DETECTIVE  STORIES. 

File  113.     By  Emile  Gaboriau. 
Gilded  Clique  (The).     By  Emile  Gaboriau. 
In  Peril  Of  His  Life.    By  Emile  Gaboriau. 
Lerouge  Case  (The).     By  Emile  Gaboriau. 
Monsier  Lecoq.     By  Emile  Gaboriau. 
Mystery  of  Orcival .     By  Emile  Gaboriau . 
Other  People's  Money.     By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

ESSAYS  AND  BELLES  LETTRES. 

Alhambra.     By  Washington  Irving. 

Astoria.     By  Washington  Irving. 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive  and  Queen  of  The  Air.     By  John  Ruskin. 

Ethics  of  The  Dust  and  A  Joy  Forever .     By  John  Ruskin . 

Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.     By  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Sartor  Resartus .     By  Thomas  Carlyle . 

Sesame  and  Lilies  and  Unto  This  Last.     By  John  Ruskin. 

Sketch  Book.    By  Washington  Irving. 

ETIQUETTE,  ETC. 

Complete  Letter  Writer.     By  Thomas  W.  Handford. 
Ladies'  Etiquette. 

-Ladies'  Family  Physician.     By  Pye  Henry  Chavasse. 
Needles  and  Brushes,  Embroidery  and  Fancy  Work. 
Stoddard's Readings  and  Recitations.     ByR.  H.  and  Elizabeth 
Stoddard. 

FABLES  AND  FAIRY  TALES ! 

^Esop's  Fables,  100  Illustrations . 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.     By  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
Arabian  Nights  (The) 

Grimm's  Popular  Tales.     By  The  Brothers  Grimm. 
Gulliver's  Travels  and  Baron  Munchausen.  By  Dean  Swift  and 
R.  E.  Raspe. 

FICTION. 

Adam  Bede.     By  Geo.  Eliot. 
Admiral's  Ward.     By  Mrs.  Alexander. 
Airy  Fairy  Lilian .     By  "  The  Duchess." 
All  In  A  Garden  Fair .     By  Besant  &  Rice. 
Arundel  Motto  (The).    By  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 
Beauty's  Daughters.     By  "  The  Duchess." 
Belinda.     By  Rhoda  Broughton. 
Beyond  Pardon.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 
Broken  Wedding  Ring  (A).     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 
Called  Back  and  Dark  Days.     By  Hugh  Conway. 
Cardinal  Sin  (A) .    By  Hugh  Conway . 
Children  of  The  Abbey .     By  Maria  Roche . 
Daughter  of  Heth  (A).     By  Wm.  Black. 
Doris.     By  "  The  Duchess." 
Dora  Thome.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 
Dick's  Sweetheart.     By  "The  Duchess." 
Dunallan.     By  Grace  Kennedy. 
Earl's  Atonement  (The).    By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

13 


East  Lynne.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

Eugene  Aram .     By  Bulwer  Lytton . 

Endyinion.     By  Benjamin  Disraeli. 

Faith  and  Unfaith.     By  "  The  Duchess." 

Felix  Holt .     By  Geo .  Eliot . 

ForLilias.     By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Green  Pastures  and  Picadilly.     By  Wm.  Black. 

Great  Expectations.    By  Chas.  Dickens. 

Heart  and  Science.     By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Henry  Esmond .     By  Wm .  M.  Thackeray . 

Her  Desperate  Victory.     By  Mrs.  M.  L.  Rayne. 

Her  Mother's  Sin.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

lone  Stewart.     By  Miss  E.  Linn  Linton. 

Ishmaelite  (An).     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Jane  Eyre.     By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman.    By  Miss  Mulock. 

Kenelm  Chillingly.     By  Bulwer  Lytton. 

King  Arthur.     By  Miss  Mulock. 

King  Solomon's  Mines.     By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 

Ladies  Lindores.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

Lady  Audley's  Secret.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Lady  Branksmere .     By  ' '  The  Duchess . " 

Love  Works  Wonders.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

Macleod  of  Dare.     By  Wm.  Black. 

Madcap  Violet.     By  Wm.  Black. 

Maid  of  Athens.     By  Justin  McCarthy. 

Margaret  and  Her  Bridesmaids.     By  Julia  Stretton. 

Mental  Struggle,  (A) .     By  "  The  Duchess . " 

Mill  On  The  Floss .     By  Geo .  Eliot . 

Molly  Bawn.     By  "The  Duchess." 

Mrs .  Geoffrey .     By  "  The  Duchess . " 

New  Magdalen  (The).    By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Old  Myddelton's  Money.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 

Oliver  Twist .     By  Charles  Dickens . 

Our  Mutual  Friend .     By  Charles  Dickens. 

Parisians  (The).     By  Bulwer  Lytton . 

Paul  and  Virginia,  Rasselas  and  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     By  St 

Pierre,  Johnson  &  Goldsmith. 
Phantom  Fortune.    By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 
Phyllis.     By  "The  Duchess." 

Portia ;  or,  By  Passions  Rocked .    By  "  The  Duchess . " 
Princess  of  Thule  (A).     By  Wm.  Black. 
Repented  at  Leisure .     By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 
Romola .     By  Geo .  Eliot . 
Rossmoyne.     By  "  The  Duchess." 
Shandon  Bells.     By  Wm.  Black. 
She .     By  H .  Rider  Haggard . 
Strange  Story  (A).     By  Bnlwer  Lytton . 
Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton .     By  Wm .  Black . 
Sunrise.     By  Wm.  Black. 
Sunshine  and  Roses.     By  Bertha  i.i.  Clay. 
Tale  of  Two  Cities  (A).     By  Charles  Dickeris. 
That  Beautiful  Wretch .     By  Wm.  Black .  ; 

Three  Feathers .     By  Wm .  Black . 
To  The  Bitter  End .     By  Miss  M .  E .  Braddon . 
Tom  Brown's  School  Days.     By  Thomas  Hughes. 
Tom  Brown  At  Oxford .     By  Thomas  Hughes. 

13 


Two  On  A  Tower .    By  Thos .  Hardy. 
Under  Two  Flags.     By  Ouida. 
Vanity  Fair.     By  Wm.  Thackeray. 
Wanda.     By  Ouida. 

Wilfred  Cumbermede.    By  Geo.  Macdonald. 
Woman's  Temptation  ( A) .     By  Bertha  M .  Clay 
Wooing O't.     By  Mrs.  Alexander. 
Yolande.     By  Wm.  Black. 
Zanoni.     By  Bulwer  Lytton. 

HISTORICAL  ROMANCES. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Guy  Mannering.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Heart  of  Midlothian .     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Ivanhoe .     By  Sir  Walter  Scott . 
Kenilworth.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii.     By  Bulwer  Lyttou. 
Redgauntlet.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Rienzi .     By  Bulwer  Lytton . 
Rob  Roy .     By  Sir  Walter  Scott . 
Scottish  Chiefs.     By  Jane  Porter. 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.    By  Jane  Porter. 
Waverley.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Willy  Reilly.    By  Wm.  Carleton. 

HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 

Dickens' Child's  History  of  England. 

Washington  and  Marion  (Life  of) . 

Webster  (Life  of).     By  Samuel  Snmcker,  LL.D. 

HUMOROUS  FICTION. 

Charles  O'Malley .     By  Charlea  Lever . 
Handy  Andy      By  Samuel  Lover. 
Harry  Lorrequer.     By  Charles  Lever. 
Rory  O'More.     Samuel  Lover. 

RELIGIOUS  AND  DEVOTIONAL. 

From  Year  to  Year.     By  Alice  Carey. 
Imitation  of  Christ.     By  Thos.  &  Kempis. 
Is  Life  Worth  Living.     By  W.  H.  Mallock. 
Pilgrim's  Progress  (The).     By  John  Bunyao. 

SEA  TALES. 

Cruise  of  The  Black  Prince  (The).    By  Commander  Cameron . 
Five  Years  Before  The  Mast.     By  W.  B.  Hazen. 
Jack  In  The  Forecastle.     By  Hawser  Martingale. 
Mark  Seaworth.     By  W.  H.  Kingston. 
Midshipman  (The) .     By  W .  H .  Kingston . 
Peter  The  Whaler .     By  Sir  Samuel  Baker . 
Pilot  (The).     By  Fenimore  Cooper. 
Pirate  (The).     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Red  Eric  (The) .     By  R .  M .  Ballantyne . 
Round  The  World.     By  W .  H .  Kingston . 
Salt  Water.     By  Sir  Samuel  Baker. 

14 


Sea  Queen  (A).  By  W.  Clark  Russell. 
Tom  Cringle's  Log.  By  Michael  Scott. 
Two  Years  Before  The  Mast.  By  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 

SHORT  STORIES. 

Dickens'  Christmas  Stories. 

Dickens'  Shorter  Stories. 

Dickens'  Story  Teller. 

Ethan  Brand.    By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  others. 

Fern  Leaves.     By  Fanny  Fern. 

Half  Hours  With  Great  Authors. 

Half  Hours  With  Great  Humorists. 

Half  Hours  With  Great  Novelists. 

Half  Hours  With  Great  Story  Tellers. 

Poe's  Tales .     By  Edgar  Allan  Poe . 

Shadows  and  Sunbeams.     By  Fanny  Fern. 

True  Stories  From  History.     By  Hugh  DeNormand. 

TRAVEL. 

Eight  Years'  Wanderings  In  Ceylon.     By  Sir  Samuel  Baker. 
Hyperion.     By  H.  W.  Longfellow. 
Outre  Mer.     By  H.  W.  Longfellow. 

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An  extraordinary  study  of  human  nature,  by  Nora  Wardell. 

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>elford'5 


Edited  by  DONN  PIATT. 


A  Magazine  devoted  to  Politics,  Poetry,  General 
Literature,  Science  and  Art. 

Belford's  Magazine  advocates  the  extinguishment  of  the  sur- 
plus by  a  reduction  of  the  present  iniquitous  and  burdensome 
Tariff  in  the  direction  of  Free-Trade  or  of  a.  tariff  for  revenue 
purposes  only  ;  such  reform  to  be  effected  in  the  interests  of  the 
farmers,  the  workingmen  and  the  great  mass  of  the  population,  as 
opposed  to  the  manipulators  of  rings  acd  trusts  and  other  monop- 
olists whom  the  present  tariff  enables  to  accumulate  vast  fortunes 
at  the  expense  of  the  community. 

The  department  of  Fiction  is  exceptionally  full.  Instead  of  a 
serial  story  dragging  its  slow  length  through  several  months,  and 
exhausting  the  patience  of  the  reader,  a  complete  novel  is 
published,  and  each  issue  also  contains  one  or  more  stories.  In  all 
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SOME  OF  THE  CONTRIBUTORS: 

David  A.  "Welles,  General  H.  V.  Boynton, 

Hon.  Frank  H.  Hurd,  Sarah  B.  M.  Piatt, 

Prof.  "W.  G.  Sumner,  Edgar  Fawcett, 
J.  S.  Moore  (Parsee  Merchant),      Joel  Benton. 

Hon.  John  G.  Carlisle,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox, 

Henry  Watterson,  Rev.  Geo.  C.  Lorimer, 

Henry  George,  E.  Heron- Allen, 

Julian  Hawthorne,  Coates-Kinney, 

General  Hermann  Lieb,  James  Whitcomb  Biley, 
Edgar  Saltus,                            .  Soule  Smith  ("Falcon"), 

John  James  Piatt,  Gertrude  Garrison,  Etc. 
Thos.  G.  Shearman, 

Price,  35c.  per  number,  $2.50  per  year.    Each  number  com- 
plete in  itself.    Subscriptions  can  be  sent  to  any  one  of  our  offices. 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

CHICAGO:  NEW  YORK:  8AN  FRANCISCO: 

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A     000  057  270     1 


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